Process
by Celestial Chaos
Summary: Post-DH. War-torn Oliver Wood finds solace in the one person he never thought he would. Slash. Revisiting my favorite HP pairing!
1. Interruptus

**Author's Notes: Long time no see, everyone. I apologize for my absence (for those who might have me on author alerts and are reading this) but it's mostly been due to work and a lack of time to really focus on writing. Plus, as we all know, muses come and go. I'm hoping mine, now that she's back, will work with me a little bit more so I don't disappoint fans who are reading some of my other fics. **

**I'm going back to my roots with this one. Oliver and Marcus are one of my favorite pairings-always will be. I've been writing them for just about 8 years now, which feels like a lifetime for me considering I usually jump around fandoms like I'm playing hopscotch. But this pair has never fully left me, and I feel like now that I've evolved as a writer, my take on them will, too. Plus, in a post-DH world, their lives are bound to be interesting. **

**This is definitely a Flint/Wood-centric slash story, so don't say I didn't warn you. It will deal with adult themes, have adult language and will be all around how I imagine these two would interact now that Voldemort has been defeated. The story takes place a couple months after DH, so things are still fresh. **

**Come along on my journey to rediscover my favorite pairing :) Lemme know what you think. Thanks everyone!**

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Oliver Wood was an easygoing man. Many would agree that it took a lot to get his feathers ruffled, at least where Quidditch wasn't concerned. But right now? Right now he was trying his best to not let out a string of curse words so long that his mother in Scotland would probably hear it.

He threw a just received owl post directly toward the fireplace. To his dismay it came flying right back at him, nearly smacking him in the face. There was no escaping it.

He thought he had more time. Then again, Oliver had never been very great with deadlines and due dates. The fact that his lease was ending at the end of the month and that this letter was informing him of that only furthered his belief that he just wasn't good with time. This was a complete mess.

Time wasn't the only problem. He needed money, as well. Playing reserves had been amazing at first—the lack of decent pay was made up by the fact that he was on a professional Quidditch team. But he'd just completed his fourth season, having yet to see much of an increase, or even a chance at taking over the official position as Keeper. Throwing in a war that had done a number on him had only made the financial situation worse.

"What am I going to do?" he muttered miserably. He'd made it through this last year solely due to his lease keeping his rent low. With the wizarding world's economy going belly-up due to the aftermath of the war, Oliver sincerely doubted his current living situation would be at all feasible with the income he had now.

He'd have to get a job—or maybe even two—during the off-season. That in itself wasn't the problem; he worried about what kind of position he could get with the little experience he had.

This had become far too intense to deal with in such a short period of time. Oliver reminded himself that he had somewhere to go, someone to see. The lease and its nonsense could wait, at least until tonight.

Oliver set the letter on the end table by his sofa, hastily retrieving his wand so he could Apparate to Diagon Alley. When he arrived a cool afternoon breeze whisked past his face and sent a chill down his spine. It was definitely autumn, all right. What day was it? Some time in September. He couldn't remember.

He pondered the date as his feet guided him subconsciously in the direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was nearly at the door before he realized that he needed to be at the Leaky Cauldron. He spun on his heels and went back the way he came, slipping inside the warm, dimly lit pub. To his surprise there weren't many people around. Lately the pub had been full of disenchanted witches and wizards looking for momentary solace in butterbeer and firewhisky.

Out of the corner of his eye Oliver caught sight of that signature Weasley red hair. George, his longtime friend and once Quidditch partner, was leaning back in one of the several booths nestled against the wall. He approached with his hands in his jacket pockets.

"George, you'd best not be ordering food without me."

George turned at the sound of Oliver's voice. He grinned, got up and embraced the burly Scotsman in a friendly hug. "Oh, you know me, mate. I'm always eating. How couldn't I order before you arrived?"

Oliver took a seat across from George, shrugging off his jacket and dumping it beside him. They exchanged pleasantries, ordered their drinks and food, and while they waited, caught up on what had happened since their last visit. Oliver blamed himself for the fact that it had been over a month—it wasn't as if he'd been particularly busy. He just rarely left his flat nowadays unless he absolutely had to.

George, however, seemed to be doing better. Much like at the beginning of the war, many witches and wizards flooded Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, helping to support his business through their desire for escapism and entertainment.

Neither mentioned Fred once. The topic was still too sore.

When the focus landed on Oliver once more, he finally shared with George his current frustration.

"It's just frustrating. I know I signed a short lease, but I didn't know if I could afford it all in the long run. Well, that, and I thought it might work itself out a little bit sooner…"

George nodded thoughtfully. "It's understandable, Oliver, you know? Everyone's got to keep watch on what's going on around them nowadays. Money's tight for most, and rent and food tend to take the majority of it…and since people need places to live, landlords just soak it all right up. M'not surprised the bastard's trying to raise yours again now that your lease is up."

Oliver sighed. "It's not that I can't afford it, it's just that…" He paused, furrowing his brow. "No, actually, it _is_ just that. I barely make enough money as it is on the reserves, and the money that I do get, I need to keep for the bare essentials. If I keep paying this rent, I'll probably have to give up on food, or something."

It was pathetic, really. Oliver had only just a few days ago received notice that his lease for his home was up soon. And even _that_ rent had been a little difficult to manage. This new amount, however, was downright ridiculous.

He took a sip of his earl grey. "I should probably try moving elsewhere. Maybe find a flatmate or something."

"Oliver." George snorted, then smirked. "You live in a one bedroom, mate. Unless you make _real _good friends with that person, I don't think it'll work out so well."

"Funny." Wood shook his head. "You know what I mean. I'll just pay the month's rent for October, and then throughout the month I'll look for some kind of flatmate to help me split the rent somewhere. My only hope is if the front Keeper for Puddlemere resigns and I take over for her. Doubt that'll happen, though. She loves her damn job."

And he couldn't blame her. Oliver, in all of his four-odd years of having been on the reserve team, had never lost his passion for Quidditch. If anything, being on an actual professional team had only strengthened it. Of course, the real money came from actually playing. He only got that occasion every so often. The piddly pay offered to reserve players was sometimes laughable.

George shifted in his seat. "Listen, mate, why don't you come do some odd jobs around the store for me, huh?"

Oliver, who had been slouching slightly in his chair, sat up straight at the suggestion. "What? Oh, no, George, I can't. You don't need to—"

"Nonsense. You're a good friend, and I can trust you to do 'em. They wouldn't be anything too big. Just cleaning up around the store at night, helping me receive shipments, things like that. Come on, what would it hurt?"

What would it hurt? Oliver thought.

His pride, for one. His parents, although supportive, had never been completely infatuated with the idea of their son playing on the reserves for a professional team. They wanted him to go back to the farm and help him take care of things there, like his older brother had. But Oliver didn't want to be like his brother—he had never wanted to be. And he refused to think that he couldn't support himself with the career he had chosen. Oliver had been fanatical about Quidditch for so many years that to try and earn money through some other means seemed almost…sacrilegious.

"It's just the economy, is all," he retorted. "It'll settle itself out soon enough. I mean, the Ministry's being rebuilt, and with You-Know-Who—er, Voldemort—gone, there's no real threat out there anymore."

George gave him a completely unconvinced look. "Listen. Oliver. Come on, it's not like I want to steal you away from your bloody game. Merlin knows I couldn't even if I tried! I'm just trying to help you out some." His voice softened. "Besides. It's…quiet around the store. You know, ever since."

Oliver paused. Suddenly he felt guilty. He could only imagine how hard it was for George to deal with having lost Fred. It was no cakewalk for Oliver, himself. Nearly five months had passed since the battle at Hogwarts, but it still sometimes felt as if it had been only yesterday.

Discomfort and painful nostalgia filled him at that moment. He had been there, just like George had. But he hadn't lost nearly as much.

Things seemed so much different when they were put into perspective, he thought.

"All right," he finally said. "Sure. That'd help a lot. Thanks, mate."

The smile that appeared on his face brought a half-hearted one to George's. Oliver could tell that even thinking briefly about Fred's death cast a shadow over his still living twin. Although George laughed, it didn't sound the same as before. He was one half to a whole now, and Oliver doubted either of them would get used to it.

"No problem, my captain. If there's one thing I don't have to worry about right now, it's business." A patented George Weasley smile formed on the redhead's face, though it lacked its usual luster. "To be honest, everyone needs something to laugh about right now, so I've got a steady flow of money coming in. I can't offer you loads, but I'll give you whatever I can."

"Whatever works, George."

Oliver meant it. He was just going to have to take the blow to his pride, suck it up and deal. In rough times like these, he needed all the money he could get. Sure, there was always the chance of moving back in with his parents, but that was a last resort—an extreme last resort.

George glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, and then gave a heavy sigh. "Looks like it's time to get back, anyway. M'sure Verity has been busy. Lunch hour is one of our highest trafficked times." He took one final quick drink of his tea, then moved to stand.

It was then that Oliver took notice of his missing ear. He had, for the most part, gotten used to the gaping hole that was where George's ear should have been. Still, on occasion it caught his attention and reminded him of just how lucky he was to get out of the war with little more than some psychological trauma and a hex burn on his forearm. He hadn't been nearly as involved as George had, especially not in the Order, but he had done his damnedest.

Giving a brisk shake of his head, Oliver then moved to stand. He embraced George lightly, gave him a pat on the back and, upon letting go, squeezed his shoulder.

"Good seeing you," he said.

"You too, captain. I'll send you an owl ahead of time, all right? For when I need you, I mean. Might be kind of sporadic. That work?"

"It's fine. Practice days switch throughout the week, but it shouldn't be too big of a problem, since I get home usually in the afternoon."

George saluted him. "Good, good. See you around then, mate. Don't play too hard."

Oliver chuckled. "Yeah, I won't."

He followed George out through the brick passageway behind The Leaky Cauldron that led into Diagon Alley.

By now, most of the businesses from before the time of Voldemort's terror had come back. The cobblestone streets were filled with people milling about. Everywhere Oliver looked, he was reminded of just how nice it was to have things back to some modicum of normality.

Street vendors attempted to sell anything and everything as he passed them by, hands buried within the pockets of his coat and his gaze set in front of him. He had some time to kill and hadn't been out of the house for a while, so he decided to take advantage of it. Of course, with a lack of money, it probably wasn't a smart decision to choose Diagon Alley as the place to go. But it was close, and he was disciplined. Not only that, he was frugal.

Well. He tried to be, anyways.

Pulling his hand out of his pocket, Oliver gripped the door handle to Quality Quidditch Supplies and stepped inside. It was several degrees warmer in the small, cozy building, so he shrugged off his coat and draped it over his shoulders to keep it safe while he walked around.

"Afternoon, Oliver!" came the friendly greeting from the young woman behind the counter.

He offered a wave. "Afternoon, Lynette! Just thought I'd…come on in and check things out." He leisurely made his way back toward the cash wrap. "Anything new?"

Lynette, a short woman about the same age as Oliver, laughed. "Since you were in two days ago? Not really. But maybe you'll find something to keep your interest. Oh, no, excuse me. I _know_ you'll find something. Just start your pile here if you want to buy anything." She patted the wooden countertop beside her.

"You're funny," Oliver said wryly. "Barrel of laughs, you are."

"Yes, I'd like to think so."

She was right. Quality Quidditch Supplies was like heaven to Oliver. The smell of the fresh leather equipment, the feel of the new Quaffles, the magazines with the latest innovations in brooms and gear…he was a kid in a candy store, and everything tasted brilliant.

It had only recently returned to its former glory, however. In the year that Voldemort's fear reigned, Quality Quidditch Supplies—and most everything about Quidditch itself—had shut down entirely. During that time, Oliver had struggled to pay his rent. Looking back, he wasn't quite sure how he had managed. At the time, everything had seemed so overwhelmingly difficult, like there was no solution. And yet, here he was, still struggling for money, but at least with a roof over his head and the ability to pass the time looking at Quidditch supplies.

After a moment, he found that his feet led him right toward the new gear. It was all the same as it had been two days ago, but it still was nice to look it over again. Puddlemere didn't update their gear as often as Oliver would have liked. To have what he saw in front of him would be heavenly.

He stroked the breastplate with the tips of his index and middle fingers.

Someday.

"Ugh...if only…"

"Something about the leather get you off, Wood? Never thought you to be into cows."

Oliver recognized that voice. That London-bred accent belonged to only one person.

He turned around and his eyes met with Marcus Flint. It had been years since they had spoken, though Oliver had seen the other man several times at matches between Puddlemere and the Falcons. Marcus hadn't changed much over the years, still looking as menacing as before with his low-set brow, dark hair and surly expression.

On some level, it was nice to know that at least one thing had remained the same. How funny that it was something he cared so little about.

"Oh, you know me. I'm all about getting off to leather."

Marcus smirked at Oliver's dry wit. "Wishing you had that gear for Puddlemere? The Falcons have already received it for the new season. It fits like a dream."

"Wait, did they bump you up to first string?"

"Just this season," Marcus replied. A smarmy grin broke out on his face. "Can't wait to get on that field and start crushing the competition. Why? You haven't been given first string yet?"

Jealousy was an ugly feeling, and Oliver hated that he felt it toward Marcus Flint—the one man he'd been able to best their final year. Now it seemed Marcus had the upper hand.

Wood folded his arms over his chest, his features darkening. "Not quite. You know, what with the war and all that. Really wasn't a viable option."

"Didn't seem to stop it from happening for me."

"Yes, well, you didn't do quite as much as I did, I reckon."

It was such a strikingly immature response for which Oliver felt immediate remorse. To his surprise Marcus appeared taken aback, almost as if he was upset by it.

"We can't all be saints, Wood."

Flint stepped close to the other, moving briskly past him without saying another word.

. . . . .

Oliver returned home that night with a heavy heart.

The war. Try though he might, the damned thing came up every single day, and consequently his mood would plummet. Sure, he felt immense pride in knowing he'd helped the forces of good, but the losses had been almost immeasurable. All of those people…

He still had nightmares from time to time about it. The fighting, the violence, the death—all of it plagued him and his already somewhat unstable psyche. Even now, when he should have been worrying about finding a new place to live, all he could think about was carrying Colin Creevey's lifeless body into the Great Hall to prevent it from being mutilated.

Oliver knew he wasn't the only one who'd been traumatized by the experience. He and George had even argued about it once. He couldn't recall any other time where he'd yelled so furiously, so mindlessly. He didn't like to think about it, didn't like recalling that irrepressible rage that still lay within him. He thanked Merlin daily for the fact that practices started up here within a few days. He needed an outlet for his aggression.

Even though he'd only been out and about for an hour or two Oliver decided he wanted to take a shower. He began undressing along the way to the bathroom, dropping his clothes haphazardly down the hall. By the time he reached the bathroom he was naked. The pale fluorescent light illuminated his skin as he stared at himself in the mirror.

He saw the hex burn on his forearm. The red and purple discoloration jarred against the light olive tone of his complexion, and instinctively he covered it up with his callused hand. Usually Oliver wore his scars proudly. He had several from playing Quidditch that, when given the opportunity, he loved to show off. But this one reminded him of everything he was trying so hard to forget. Today it stung particularly deep after his brief conversation with Marcus.

Oliver wondered why the universe had chosen today of all days for him to run into his once nemesis. It seemed like a kick when he was down.

_Here, Oliver, why don't you have something else to make you feel like you're inadequate? Marcus can get first string _and_ has lots of money to live comfortably, why can't _you?

He tugged at the faucet and turned the water as hot as it could possibly get. He had a lot of forgetting to do tonight.


	2. Going through the motions

**Author's Notes: Chapter two, yay! It's somewhat slow going on writing, because I really want to focus on the build up and the back story for these two (and their friends) since you don't learn much about them...well, outside of a certain few. **

**I'm glad there's been such a positive reception to the story. I appreciate it ^^ Let me know what y'all think of this one, too! Happy reading!**

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"You can't be serious. You ran into Wood earlier today? What's that goody two shoes up to lately?"

Marcus stared at his friend Adrian Pucey with slight disdain. Out of all of his companions Adrian, while a loyal friend, sometimes drove him batty with all of his questions. He talked almost as incessantly as a teenage girl. For a moment he regretted having even mentioned it.

Thankfully his other friend Terence Higgs curbed the younger Slytherin's curiosity. "Probably told him about his new starting position as third Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons. Last I heard, Wood still hadn't made it to first string."

Hearing that once more gave Marcus less pleasure than before. He knew Wood had been too busy with the war to worry about Quidditch. He had downright saint-like, what with acting on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix and fighting to save his friends and family. He was proud of the fact, talking about it as if he'd earned a special badge or something of the like.

A cold shiver ran down Marcus' spine. He hated feeling jealous, especially when it came to Oliver Wood. He quickly reminded himself he had no reason to feel so resentful—_he_ was in the position of success right now. _He_ had everything going for him.

Somehow that twisted logic had managed to quell the envy, if just for a minute.

"When's your first practice, mate?" Terence asked as he leaned back in his chair. His dark blonde hair occasionally glimmered from the lamplight surrounding their table. The Leaky Cauldron always seemed to brighten Terence's features, Marcus noticed.

"This Friday, I think. What's that, the second? Yeah, this Friday."

"S'been a couple months. You feeling rusty?"

"Adrian, we're _all_ going to be rusty. In case you forgot, this summer wasn't exactly _normal_."

Marcus' statement shut the pale skinned brunette up right quick. His cheeks flushed and he looked away.

"I was just saying," he muttered under his breath.

Terence and Marcus shared an amused look. The dark haired Slytherin reached out and slapped his friend's shoulder. "Oh, come off it. Don't act like you're hurt or I'll give you something to cry about."

Adrian snorted. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. All talk and no action, you are." He took a drink of his butterbeer. "So, what're we doing for my birthday next week? You two said you'd come up with something but you've told me absolutely nothing!"

Flint was glad for the change of topic. He and Terence _had_ said they would come up with something for Adrian's birthday, but in truth he hadn't yet given it much thought. Usually Terence was the brains of operations like these; Marcus mostly concerned himself with making sure that Adrian stayed out of the planning.

"You think we're just going to tell you what we've planned?" he asked. Terence chuckled as he continued, "You're nutters, Puce. Now, drink your butterbeer and shut up. We want you to stew in your own curiosity for a little bit longer."

Adrian, with a smile, said, "Git."

. . . . .

Marcus apparated home with every intent of getting ready for bed. He'd been up since the crack of dawn, though that was due to his own volition. Falmouth practices often took place before the sun rose, and Marcus was doing all he could to ensure he was up and running as required. He had awfully big shoes to fill. How would it look if he came to practice yawning and dragging his feet?

He caught sight of the clock hanging above his kitchen archway as he passed beneath it. Had he really been with Adrian and Terence for so long? He'd have to start keeping watch on the time. It was nearly nine o'clock and he was trying to be in bed and asleep by then.

In truth, he was glad they'd kept him occupied for so long. Marcus was brimming after his encounter with Wood. He'd always hated how just the presence of the other man riled him up, and yet he never tried to fight it. He couldn't explain what had drawn him to the other while standing there in Quality Quidditch Supplies; maybe he just wanted to feel that anxious lurch that came from interacting with him. Then again, the interaction had worked out in his favor for at least a few moments when he'd found out Oliver was still on the reserves.

But then the git had to go and mention the war.

Marcus stalked to his bedroom, stopping just shy of the door. Down at the end of the hall stood a full-length mirror. For the briefest of moments he caught sight of his own eyes in his reflection. He tore his look away, stepping into the darkness of his room. He moved around until he found his nightstand lamp. Soon his room lit up with a golden yellow glow, casting shadows on the dark, unreachable corners.

He hated thinking about the war. He hated thinking about what his father had done to avoid being recruited into Voldemort's ranks, hated what _he'd_ done to do the same. Nobody else he knew had been in a situation like the Flints, and therefore nobody would understand.

_Poor little Marcus_, said a voice in his head. _Only you._

He made a face and took a seat at the edge of his bed. He hated when he got into moods like these. He needed to remind himself that things were better now, that Death Eaters weren't just going to pop into his house and attempt to kidnap him. It pissed him off that he still had nightmares about that some five months after the fateful battle had taken place. It was supposed to be _over_.

Tomorrow was a busy day for him. It was his first day of practice, and he needed to get over this psychological nonsense so he could focus.

Why couldn't he shake this stupid feeling of discomfort?

Oh, right, his father. His father and his _priceless _Ministry.

_The rebuilding of the Ministry will take months, if not years, to fully accomplish_, his father would say. Again. _Voldemort's regime did a number on the people and there will be absolutely no certainty in the political, economical or social well being of the wizarding population until the Ministry is back to full capacity. It will be a long, arduous road, Marcus. I wish I didn't have to go it alone_.

Go it alone. Marcus knew exactly what that meant.

"Come join me," Marcus said aloud to no one in particular. "Let's fix the Ministry!"

He was talking to himself. So what?

He hated his father sometimes. Hated how he never seemed to fully understand how important Quidditch was to him, and how much he didn't want to work for the Ministry of Magic like his father, older sister and older brother. Marcus had a feeling that was one of the main reasons why the Flint family had been such a target for the Death Eaters: their prominence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Marcus threw himself back on the bed and let out a huff. It wouldn't do to get so upset before bed, but who gave a damn? Now he was just angry. And when he got angry, he almost immediately stopped caring.

It was going to be a long night.

. . . . .

"Really, Oliver, this is your third time working for George, so get your act together…"

The reserve Keeper muttered mindlessly under his breath as he attempted to once again extract the canisters of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder from a wooden crate in the back of George's shop. He'd already broken two because of how fragile they were, and it had taken him nearly five minutes to clear up the mess that they had caused. It shouldn't have been so difficult, and yet, here he was, struggling.

Thank Merlin George hadn't come back to check up on him yet. He still had to pour the powder into individual phials…

"What a disaster," he said grimly.

This would have been much easier had he been able to use magic. But George had specifically requested Oliver remove the canisters the Muggle way.

"There's too much of a chance that they'll burst. The powder is sensitive to magic," George had said."

On some level, Oliver thought his friend was testing him. Or maybe he just wanted to see Oliver make a fool of himself. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Though it took work, he was able to extract the last canister without incident. He had set them all side by side in front of him on a round wooden table at George's request. The next step was to begin funneling the powder into concentrated phials, but just the thought of it made Oliver's insides twist with worry.

Maybe he wasn't cut out for this. He really should have just stuck to his guns. Quidditch he could do. This? He wasn't sure. What kind of man worked a part time job at a joke shop, anyway? He was nearly twenty-three—an adult by the standard of most. And yet here he was, fretting over just how difficult it would be to pour some powder into a few phials. It was all fine and good for George! This was his business, after all.

But for Oliver…

The Keeper ran his grimy hands down his face, trying to remind himself why he was doing this. Oh, right. The money. The money that he _wasn't _getting from pursuing his dream of playing professional Quidditch.

If only his parents knew what he was doing at this very moment. Their embarrassment would be more than enough to shame him for days, maybe even weeks. It was a good thing he hadn't spoken to them in a couple of weeks. This would surely slip out of his mouth, and the results wouldn't be pretty.

This kind of thought was too deep this late in the afternoon—and _especially_ for a weekend. What he needed right now was a drink, something to calm his nerves.

What time was it?

Oliver glanced at a novelty clock hanging beside a double-paned window across the floor from him. It was just past six. Five hours had passed. This astounded him. Had it really taken him so much time to do such a simple task?

"Oy, I don't pay you to sit there and look pretty, Wood. Get to work."

Oliver turned his attention to the doorway nestled against the wall. There stood George at the base of the stairs, a half-smirk on his face and his arms folded over his chest.

"What? That's not what I signed up for, then. This is bollocks."

George chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, mate. Whatever you say. How's everything going, then? Did you get the containers out all right? Love your sooty face."

"Had an incident or two but for the most part, m'all right." Oliver dusted off his front, stepping toward George. He gestured over his shoulder. "Now I just have to pour the canisters into the phials and all will be right with the world."

"Should I get Verity to come down and help you out?"

Even though George was joking, a part of his question smarted. Oliver hated feeling inferior. How hard was it to do this simple task? Maybe he really did need the help.

"You realize I'm joking, mate," George placated. He reached out and patted Oliver's shoulder. "Verity's too busy upstairs to come down and help. You take all the time you need; this isn't simple work. Even…" He paused briefly. "Even Freddie and I used to have a bit of trouble trying to get them in without getting a face full of powder."

"So what's your secret, then?"

"Good hand-eye coordination. You're a Keeper, Oliver, so _clearly_ you've got the knack. You can figure it out." George winked. "I'll just be upstairs on the floor if you need me. If I hear any massive explosions, I'll come running. Don't make _too_ much of a mess, yeah?"

Oliver playfully shoved George backward, who started for the stairs. "Oy, don't beat up your boss. Not good for when reviews come around!"

"Just bugger off," Oliver said with a laugh. "I'll show you who's boss, Weasley."

. . . . .

Freedom!

Oh, the beautiful feel of cold, fresh air filling his lungs. Oliver had begun to think he would never get out of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Now, some few hours later, here he was. And boy, did it feel good.

Oliver patted his pocket, now fuller with a couple of galleons George had given him for his day's work. In all honesty he knew he should have gone to Gringott's just down the street to save it. But instead he decided that he for sure needed that drink from earlier.

Or maybe more than just one.

Having just been at the Leaky Cauldron a few days before, Oliver decided to apparate to Hogsmeade. There was barely a soul on the streets, but at nine o'clock on a Monday night, there was nary a reason to expect otherwise.

He entered the Three Broomsticks after a momentary struggle with the sticking wooden door. The pub, much like outside, housed very few people, most of whom hung around the tables in the dimly lit corners. The Three Broomsticks featured a much different clientele in the evenings, almost similar to those one might see at the Hog's Head.

Oliver snorted. He remembered going there a few times. Never again.

He went right for an open seat at the bar with his back to the door to help keep himself warm. He didn't plan on staying long—just enough to get a buzz before going home. He had trouble admitting it to himself, but alcohol had grown into a dependable crutch for helping him relax over the last year. Without it his mind went ninety miles a minute, always buzzing, always _thinking_. It was too much.

"Firewhisky please," he said to the bartender as he sat down.

"Really, Oliver, you'd think I'd know what you like by now."

Oliver glanced up to see Madame Rosmerta standing there, looking kindly as always. Her comment sent a light flush through his cheeks and ears. Why was she always _here_?

"Sorry, Rosmerta." He shifted toward her and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Just a question: have you ever taken a day off? I feel like every time I've _ever_ been here, you have, too."

"Days off don't exist when you're running a business, love," Rosmerta said with a wink. She poured Oliver's drink with ease. She placed it in front of him, smiled, and then went to greet another patron at the opposite end of the bar.

The young Scot wondered what that would be like: never having a day off. During the Quidditch season he worked several days a week, but never all day, every day as Rosmerta seemed to. And she never complained, at least not to his knowledge. She loved what he did. _He_ loved what he did, too, even if he was beginning to feel disenchanted by his lack of moving up.

Oliver took a swig of his drink and made a face at the delayed burn that engulfed his throat. He stared down at the glass of alcohol, trying to figure out when he'd gone from a once-a-week-feel-like-it drinker to a need-it-daily type.

The memory hit him roughly, making him close his eyes and wince. It had been just a couple of weeks after Fred and George had recruited him into the Order, and they'd suffered the painful casualty of Mad-Eye Moody. Oliver had never actually met the man face to face but had heard enough about him to know that hew as a force to be reckoned with. He was someone many revered. Eccentric though he had been, his reputation truly preceded him.

Oliver remembered thinking that if someone like him could go down so easily, what chance did they have? What chance did _he_ have?

The thought had seriously burned his already fried nerves. For days afterward, Oliver had thought that he should back out. What good would he be in a fight? He dueled pitifully, as was obvious by his preference for his broom over his wand. Half the spells he'd executed with moderate success at Hogwarts were long gone from his memory. Joining the Order of the Phoenix had been an atrocious error. He was going to get someone killed—or worse, get himself killed.

Alcohol had helped calm his nerves. It had started out simple enough at first: just a drink before the Order's meetings to take the edge off. The deeper involved he became in the Order the more he began to drink, moving from one or two drinks a week to three or four, then seven to eight, and at his worst, at least two a night.

Oliver had thought that when the war ended, he would go back to how he'd been before. Sometimes he liked to laugh at how naïve he used to be. Now he was jaded.

Which was worse?

He took a long drink.

He shook his head. Did he have a drinking problem? No. But he certainly wasn't pleased that he'd yet to kick the habit to help wind down after a rough day. There were plenty of better ways to relieve tension.

"Used to be Quidditch," he murmured to himself, downing what little drink he had left before ordering another.

"Really, Quidditch? Even when you're sitting by yourself, all you can think about is the game? You truly are obsessed."

Oliver turned his attention to the voice hovering over him. His heart sank when he caught sight of the pale skin, low set brow and sidelong smirk.

"Flint. What, are you stalking me now?" he asked.

Marcus snorted. "You wish, Wood. No, I thought I'd come get a nice drink after my practice today. The Falcons don't take kindly to soft players, so the first few weeks are pretty grueling. I need some relief. You got a problem with that?"

Wood gestured to the barstools nearby with an open arm. "By all means, do whatever you like."

To his surprise, Flint sat down in the seat beside him. Normally this would have frustrated him, but something deep down inside told him to just let it go. Oliver needed company right now—needed someone to keep him from retreating deep into his head. Whether he knew it or not.

"Spiced mead," Marcus said to Rosmerta as she passed by. Moments later he had a flagon in his hands, lightly steaming around the rim. He took a drink and held back a grimace.

Obviously it was hot. Oliver wondered why the other man hadn't let it cool down.

"Fucking—burned the roof of my mouh."

"Well, you did say you wanted a nice drink after your _grueling_ practice, didn't you?"

"Oh, be quiet," Marcus said with a sneer. "D'you want the mead in your face?"

"Good to know you're as violent as always."

Oliver, despite having every logical reason to want to, didn't tell Marcus to leave. He just sat there, enjoying his drink and the calming effect it was having on his racing mind and fidgety fingers. No more tap-tap-tap against the wood, against the glass…

Ever the conversationalist, Wood turned to his companion and asked, "So, ready for the new season?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

_Should've expected that_, Oliver thought.

"They said this winter is supposed to be the coldest we've had in ages. M'not looking forward to Quidditch in the snow, at any rate."

"Oh, Wood, always complaining. Snow is the least of your worries. Did you see the game schedule?"

"Of course I have. Why?"

Marcus snorted. "You've obviously not. Falcons against Puddlemere, just before Christmas. Qualifying round for the National Cup."

Oliver felt like a fool. He _had_ seen that; he remembered now. It didn't seem as pertinent, however, as he probably wouldn't be playing. The thought was so anticlimactic and yet so upsetting at the same time. Oliver _wanted_ to play that game, but he'd mostly resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't.

He swallowed some firewhisky with a stone face.

"Think we'll play against each other again?" he asked.

"If you get on that first string, maybe." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "To be honest, m'surprised you're not yet. You're fanatical."

"Gee, thanks."

Oliver never got used to hearing such disparaging, negative comments about his passion for Quidditch. After all of these years, maybe it was starting to finally get to him. Or maybe it was just the buzz coming from the alcohol. He felt warm from the inside out, especially his face.

Neither man spoke after that, instead choosing to indulge in their shared vice. Marcus ordered another flagon. Occasionally Oliver would hear bits and pieces from the conversations around him, but never enough to catch his attention for long. He always retreated into his convoluted, inebriated thoughts.

At least, that was until Marcus broke the silence.

"So are you always alone, Wood? I never see you with anyone. Awfully surprised, considering your golden boy status." He looked away. "Everyone loves you."

Was that bitterness in Marcus' voice?

"What're you trying to say?"

"Just that I'm surprised you're drinking alone."

The conversation lulled, and the two men continued to sip on their drinks in silence, surrounded by the ambiance of the Three Broomsticks.

It wasn't until Oliver finished his firewhisky and mindlessly ordered another that he turned to Marcus and said, "For your information, I've…not really had anyone to drink with lately. Aside from George and the girls, that is."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "If you've got girls you're drinking with then you shouldn't have any problem right?"

"You dolt, I mean Angelina, Alicia and Katie. If you're hinting at what I reckon you're hinting at…"

"You reckon right." The Slytherin polished off his drink and ordered another. "You mean to tell me you never boned any of them? Hell, I'd have gone after Johnson and Spinnet, myself."

"Don't talk about them like that," Oliver muttered.

"Oh, my, well, _sorry_ if I offended your delicate sensibilities."

Oliver remained quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I just don't have the energy to _do _things like that right now. I'm poor, Flint, which I'm sure delights you to hear. I can't afford to take anyone out for a nice meal and then take them back home. I can't cook for shite, so that's not an option, either." He sighed. "Needless to say, it's been…problematic."

How did you tell someone you really didn't much care about that your sexual encounters usually just involved your hand and some imaginative thinking? Merlin, he was so embarrassed.

"Not that it's any of your business," Marcus began stiffly, "but I…can relate." Oliver looked at him and he continued, "Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll kill you."

Oliver drew a cross over his heart. "You've got my word."

Marcus grumbled. "Anyway, it's been hard. I've had so much going on that I've pretty much given up on the chase. Terence and Puce like to take the piss out on me over it. I gave up caring a while ago."

"Do you—" Oliver stopped himself.

Marcus swallowed a large gulp of his drink. "Do I what?"

"No, never mind, it's nothing." The Gryffindor couldn't believe he'd almost asked Marcus if he masturbated often. This was going to be his last drink.

Wood drank his firewhisky and stared off at the nearby window that overlooked Hogsmeade's main street. People passed by in groups, many dressed in cloaks, with the occasional one or two wandering inside the pub. When he looked back at Marcus he found the dark haired one staring at him rather intently.

He blinked. "What?"

Marcus fumbled around in his pocket for several galleons, placing them on the sticky wooden bar top.

"What?" Oliver repeated.

"Finish your drink. We're leaving."


	3. The Escape

**Author's Notes: I know, you all are probably looking at the length of this chapter and thinking "WHAT?" because it's about a third as long as I usually write, but I gotta say, this scene has to stand alone. I tried having it be the opening of chapter three but the next scene takes place like a month later and it just didn't seem right to have it them in the same chapter. So, here stands chapter three, the awkward wake up scene after what was surely an intriguing night. :P**

**Caro, j'ai pas oublié que tu lis cette histoire! ;) Ma muse est retournée encore pour fair qqc avec Oliver et Marcus! LOL C'est parfait~!**

**whatevergirl: You'll get to see a lot more into their heads here soon. These poor guys have a lot going on, especially Oliver. Hehe. **

**Swiping Monocles: It's okay, they're paid to clean it up. Not that we want that to have to happen, but you know what I mean. XD**

**Hope you all enjoy this beautifully short chapter in all its glory. Lemme know what you think. :)**

* * *

Oliver woke up feeling groggy and tired. He was lying on his back—he _never_ lay on his back while sleeping—and felt a tense, almost tight sensation all throughout his body. He had not yet opened his eyes, but that mattered little. He usually stayed in bed for several minutes in order to fully wake up, so why did he need to look at anything just yet?

He tested all of his limbs, stretching his legs and his feet, wriggling every finger and every toe. After a yawn he reached up and ran his hand down his face, the bristly hairs on his face gently scratching him on the way down.

When he finally opened his eyes he stared at the ceiling, immediately realizing that something was different. Where was his stucco? What was this smooth, lofty surface above his head?

This wasn't the first time he'd been in a situation like this, but it had been a while. Oliver's heart skipped a beat.

_Okay_, he told himself. _Deep breath, keep calm. Figure out where you are._

Of course, what came next usually made the situation more uncomfortable. He needed to figure out who he was with.

Oliver turned on his side and took a peek at the form lying beside him. Whoever it was had his back to him. His skin was pale and splattered with light freckles here and there, mostly on his shoulders. He had a head of short-cropped jet-black hair and was snoring peacefully.

As what happened the night before slowly dawned on Oliver, he couldn't help but gawk in disbelief. He hadn't drunk enough to black out, and nearly every little detail flooded his mind once he'd opened the gates.

Marcus had apparated them back to his home once they left the Three Broomsticks. Once there, Marcus had told Oliver to sit down on the couch, and when he did, it wasn't but a few seconds later that the other man joined him, assertively pushing him into the cushion and moving in for a kiss. Things progressed from there, and although some details were somewhat fuzzy, they had somehow ended up naked in the bedroom, where they'd fallen asleep.

And now here he was.

Oliver wasn't really sure why he'd gone home with Marcus last night. He'd done it with other men before, but never had he thought he'd do the same with his rival from Hogwarts. It was almost comical, maybe even a little ironic.

Was that the right word? He wasn't sure.

When Oliver turned again he felt a dull pain in his lower abdomen. He hadn't felt that in _ages_. Endorphins eventually kicked in, lifting the pain away and leaving him with a relaxed smile.

Marcus continued to snore away beside him.

Wood began planning his leave. In situations like this, hanging around never resulted in anything good. He'd done it once and the awkward scene that had followed only caused to make him feel uncomfortable. This was a one-night stand and he was fine with that. It had provided a good source of escape for him—and hopefully for Marcus too—which had ultimately been the goal.

Oliver sat up with a quiet, strained grunt. What he saw around him surprised him; the room looked different than how he'd imagined Flint would decorate his private living quarters. The furniture was minimal, only a desk and armoire existing along with the bed. All three were made from walnut wood coated in a dark varnish, and the rug splayed over the middle of the wooden floor mixed together slate gray and black in strange shapes and forms. There was only one decoration on the wall: a small, square painting featuring a somewhat lonely house on a hill.

Nothing about the room seemed particularly menacing, but just the same, it lacked a warmth that Oliver felt when he returned to his home every night. There were no clothes on the floor, no books or any sign that the man who inhabited this room had a love of Quidditch. For someone as into the game as Marcus was, Oliver had expected to see at least _one _thing.

Where was the lavish furniture that only someone of a rich background could afford to buy?

He stared over at the sleeping man beside him for a moment before finally slipping out of the bed. The second his feet touched the freezing wooden floor he jolted up, giving a quiet yelp. Why the hell was it so cold?

More importantly, where were his briefs?

Oliver clutched his arms over his chest during the search for his underwear. The majority of his clothes lay in a hodge-podge mess beside Marcus' bed, and after rummaging through them he found his pants, inside of which hid his briefs. He slipped them on silently, eventually following suit with the rest of his clothes. They too were cold but at least they warmed up from the heat of his body, which helped stave off the wintry chill of the room.

All through this Flint continued to snore away. He rolled over onto his back and draped his arm over his face. It was almost…cute.

Oliver shook his head. He needed to get out of here before the other woke up.

He glanced around the bedroom until he found the door. Thankfully it was open, so he slipped past it and into the dimly lit and narrow hallway. Before him was another door, but he headed for the winding staircase to the left. When he stepped off the landing he stopped to take in all that surrounded him. For some reason, he'd expected glitz and glam—Marcus was a well-to-do pureblood, after all—but the downstairs décor was just like the upstairs: very minimal, with a lack of color and design.

Oliver continued down the foyer and stopped at a pair of classic French doors. Finally, something fancy that met his expectations. Beyond them was the kitchen, cold and distant with all of its dark wood and cast iron cookware hanging from a rack above the stove. He wondered briefly if Marcus ever used it. The kitchen, though nicer than anything Oliver had seen in ages, didn't seem particularly lived in. There were no dishes in the sink or on the counter, nor did there seem to be any type of bread or fruit lying out anywhere. The dining table had no place mats or any type of decoration. It was painfully empty.

He pulled away from the kitchen and started for the door. He remembered setting his wand on the small end table by the front door, not wanting to break it by placing it in his back pocket, as he was apt to do. And sure enough, right there atop the wooden surface was his wand, all glorious 10 and ¾ inches of it. He gripped it, prepared to apparate.

But he stopped suddenly.

He couldn't just _leave_. That was rude.

Damn his manners. No, he needed to let the Slytherin know he was leaving.

Oliver looked around for a notepad or something of the sort. He found one, along with an inkwell and quill, at a mahogany desk in Marcus' living room. He leaned over the desk and hastily scribbled a note:

_Flint,_

_Thanks for a damned good night. I can remember most of it, which was pretty wicked. I woke up this morning with a sore arse. Haven't felt that in a while. You play rough. I'm not surprised._

_Sorry I didn't stick around. Didn't think you'd mind. You were snoring away anyways. Hope you enjoyed your rest._

_Wood_

That seemed sufficient enough. Oliver folded up the note and enchanted it to rest on Marcus' nightstand. He watched it take flight upstairs before finally reaching for his wand.

_Now_ he could leave with a clean conscience.


	4. Birthday Party

**Author's Notes: Hi everyone! SO SORRY it took me so long to update this story. I just got way too distracted by something else I was writing, which in the end kind of won out. I hadn't intended to post much of what I had of this story until I was near finished with it, but as usual, I don't follow my own rules...**

**This chapter is a bit short due to the fact that I felt it would be the best place to end it. Nothing but a bunch of warm, friendly-type things happening in this chapter, but that's what everybody loves at a time like this, right? Oliver needs his friends!**

**Please enjoy! Lemme know what you think :)**

* * *

"All right, Wood, just keep your eyes closed. I'm watching you! No peeking…"

"Ow! Damn it, George, that was my foot, you bloody oaf."

"Oh, it's not my fault you've got two left feet. Come on."

George guided Oliver by his forearm up to the front door of his home. The Keeper had his hands firmly over his eyes as per his friend's orders.

He wasn't stupid—he knew that George was leading him straight into a surprise birthday party. Was it really a surprise, though, seeing as he knew? He always knew. This happened every year, and yet they all seemed to think he would never catch on.

It was nice to know his friends cared this much.

"All right, in you go, mate…"

Oliver felt a gentle nudge to the small of his back that guided him through the entrance and into George's flat. Through the spaces between his fingers he could see slivers of light, but no shadows. Everyone was probably hiding from him.

"Can I open my eyes now, George? Is everyone here yet?"

"Oliver, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. I just wanted to surprise you with my new couch. Can't a bloke build up some suspense? Merlin." George sighed dramatically, closing the door behind him. "I suppose, though, if you must, you can open your eyes."

Oliver's hands were halfway down his face by the time George sighed. When he took them off completely he glanced around him, waiting for that magic moment.

"Surprise!" he said, hoping it would draw some people out.

But nothing happened.

He looked back at George, confused.

"What, mate? I told you, no surprise party. You never seemed much surprised by them in the past, so why waste the time? I know it's your birthday and all but that's what dinner was for. Which you enjoyed, by the way."

George moved past Oliver and headed toward the kitchen. Oliver's eyes followed him expectantly, waiting for something to happen. He stayed silent, however, waiting for George to flip on a dime and burst out with, "Happy birthday!"

But again, nothing happened. George went about getting himself a glass of water. It was so painfully normal that something inside Oliver snapped. He stalked over to the counter, somewhat desperately clutching it as he asked, "Really? Nothing at all? Nothing's going to happen?"

George didn't even glance up while he dug around in his cabinet. "Nope. Sorry to burst your bubble."

Something about that answer rubbed Oliver completely the wrong way. What was this nonsense? He always had a birthday party thrown by his friends. A long-lasting tradition was to just suddenly be thrown away? No, that wasn't right. It wasn't right at all.

Just as he was about to raise hell about it Oliver heard the sound of multiple forms apparating behind him. He whirled around and caught sight of several of his closest friends appearing from thin air. Alicia, Katie, Angelina, Harry and Ron all stood there with large, infectious grins on their faces.

Oliver threw his arms up in the air. "You lot are fucking incor…in…damn it, what's the word?"

"Incorrigible?" Katie asked.

"Yes, that!"

Wood shot a look back at George, mischief lighting up his face.

"You little—"

"Now, now, Oliver! I had to surprise you somehow, right?"

"You know George," Ron said. "He said to wait until you lost it. This year he really wanted it to be a surprise."

Alicia said, "Well, looks like he succeeded, eh?"

Oliver couldn't help but smile. The sight of all of his closest friends in one place quickly overrode his irritation from George's prank. At least he knew now that in the end what he truly wanted was a birthday party, despite his every attempt at being nonplussed about it.

. . . . .

"Remember, Wood, I got that for you so you could keep track of your things, since you're always losing them. Worked for Neville."

"Funny, Potter. Let's hope I don't lose it, yeah?"

Oliver pocketed the Remembrall and gave the dark haired boy a friendly hug.

"Stay in touch, Oliver. You've been too quiet lately."

Oliver nodded, seeing Harry off with a wave.

The party had been a roaring success—the exact distraction Oliver needed to remove himself temporarily from the obnoxious day to day that was his life. The only people who remained at the party now were him, George and Alicia, who was putting on her jacket and preparing to take her leave.

"Busy day tomorrow, huh?" George asked her as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.

"Don't remind me," Alicia muttered. "I don't want to have to pack. I know I can do it magically, but still, I don't want to leave my house."

"Wait, what?"

That was news to Oliver. He looked at Alicia curiously. "What happened? Why do you have to leave?"

"That independent travel business Katie was working for tits over arse," she explained, sighing. "She can't afford to pay her part of our rent anymore, so we have to be out in a week. She's moving back home."

"Are you?" Oliver asked.

"Merlin, I hope not. George offered to let me stay here until I find a place, but I don't want to impose too much on him."

George snorted. "Nonsense, you know you're always welcome here."

"Alicia…" Oliver scratched the back of his head. This was strangely odd timing. Lucky, if anything. He couldn't help but wonder if it had happened for a reason. "The same thing is happening to me, actually. I…can't afford to stay where I'm at. How about you and I try and find a place together?"

Alicia looked taken aback, although her initial shock wore off when she caught Oliver's concern. "Oh, Oliver, don't get me wrong, I'm not against it. I'm just surprised someone as well off as you is in the same position as me."

"Well off," Oliver said with a snort. "If only."

Alicia looked at George but the expression he wore rang clear of Don't ask.

"Do you really think it'd be a good idea?" she asked curiously. "You've always lived on your own, right?"

"Well, after moving out of my house, but I do have an older sister, you know. M'not some barbarian; I can live with a woman just fine."

Alicia laughed. "I didn't mean it like that, Oliver. I just wondered if you'd mind living with someone else after being alone for so many years. Then again, you seem to prefer your time to yourself, right?" She smiled, even though those words hit Oliver harder than he believed she'd intended. "Sounds like a wonderful plan. Can we meet up tomorrow night to discuss it further?"

"Great," Oliver said. "You can stop by my flat, we'll talk about it then. Stay warm out there tonight."

Alicia suddenly moved close and wrapped her arms tightly around Oliver's neck. He was surprised by the gesture but hugged her back. Sometimes he forgot she had such a strong grip—and then he always remembered that was precisely why he'd picked her for their team in the first place.

He smiled as she pulled back and retrieved her wand. She was gone in an instant, with no more than a "Bye!" which left him and George alone in the redhead's apartment.

"That was an awfully nice gesture of you," Oliver said after a moment's silence. "Offering her a place to stay. You got the space?"

"'Course I do," George said. "I mean, Fred's…" He paused. "Fred's room, and all. His study, that is. I told her she could have it if she'd help me clean it out, and she offered."

"How long have you known about this?"

"Just a couple days. Katie told me first. She feels right awful about it. Not her fault, though. S'nobody's fault but this piss poor economy, thanks to the war."

Oliver folded his arms over his chest. Part of him wanted to feel petulant and cross that George hadn't offered him the room just the same, but Alicia's position was far more pressing than his own. He could find a new place if he'd just start looking. She, however, lived day to day on the money she earned. Given her subpar relationship with her parents, returning home wasn't a viable option. For Oliver it was.

"Listen, I know you're probably upset I didn't offer you the same—"

"I'm not, don't worry. I understand where you're coming from. But hopefully she and I can figure it out and work on something together. Our combined wages should be able to get us something decent with the way the housing market is right now, right?"

"I'll keep positive for you," George said, smiling.

Oliver smiled as well. "Thanks. I'll need it. And listen." He brought George into a one-armed hug, squeezing him tight for a moment. "Thank you, again. This was brilliant. Excellent planning."

"What're best friends for, mate? Happy birthday. Keep me up to date, yeah? I'll let you know if I have any other jobs lying around. You're good for November, right? With what I got for you?"

"Yeah, I paid my rent just a couple days ago. Your odd jobs saved my arse."

And they really did. Oliver needed to talk to Alicia, and fast. He had until the end of November to get out of his flat and find a new one. That was less than three weeks away.

He sighed. "I'm gonna head back home. We'll talk soon. Night, George."

"Good night, mate."

. . . . .

"So you're sure this is the place, right?"

Alicia nodded. "Yes. It's the bottom level of this two-story, here. We're only a few minutes early so I can't imagine they'll keep us—"

Out of the blue a witch in electric blue robes Apparated into the air beside Oliver and Alicia. She had her mousy brown hair done up in a bun; her horn-rimmed glasses framed her oddly shaped face and her pale skin almost seemed to glow thanks to the grey sky above.

She extended her hand to both in greeting. "Good afternoon! My name is Imelda Johnson and I'm the agent for this small living community. We're so excited to have you here—and perhaps to call you neighbors soon!"

Her positivity and assurance rubbed Oliver the wrong way but he kept his opinion to himself.

He half-listened as Imelda explained the benefits of the community (_Only several other families living in the neighborhood, perfect for starting couples such as yourselves! Seasonal parties and activities abound!)_ and why the flat was such a steal on rent (_The previous couple couldn't afford it_). In all honesty, he just wanted to see the inside and make sure it was worth more than what they would potentially be paying for it. He and Alicia had been searching for two weeks now in every free moment they had, and he was ready to call it quits.

Wasn't it supposed to be the third time that was the charm? What did that make this tenth flat? The charm three times over and then some? While it wasn't like him to give up, he was beginning to feel like time was working against them.

Once they were inside, his sense of anxiety slowly began to fade. While it was by no means the perfect flat, it had no outstanding repair issues, was of decent size and maintained a good amount of space that was perfect for the two of them. Most importantly, it was the only two-bedroom that was in their budget. He wondered how it was such a steal, but at a time like this, they couldn't afford to be picky.

Alicia seemed highly interested. At the end of the tour she brushed some of her hair behind her ear, turning to Oliver. "Well, what do you think?"

"As long as I have space to put a bed and a kitchen to eat in, I'm happy," he replied. "What do _you_ think?"

"I have to say, it's a surprisingly good find." She turned to Imelda. "What's the catch? Seriously, no place this good could ever be as cheap as you've got it listed."

Imelda shifted on her feet. She cleared her throat. "Nothing, really, I assure you. I would definitely recommend you take advantage of the deal while we've got it!"

Alicia and Oliver shared a look. They would be bound to the flat for at least a year, so hasty decisions weren't ideal. However, even a minute left to chance could result in them not getting a home. They couldn't risk it.

Oliver nodded his head. "All right, we'll take it. What do we need to do?"

Imelda beamed. "Oh, let me take care of all of it for you! How exciting! You'll never be happier, promise! If you'll just follow me, I would _love_ to show you the rest of your lovely new neighborhood! Congratulations on your new flat!"


	5. Owl Post

**Author's Notes: What can I say? DH Part 2 is a massive muse-jolter. I have been writing lots of HP stuff in the last few days, though this was really the only thing that is worth posting. The rest of it is just a bunch of drabbles and dribbles that I've not quite finished. **

**I'm glad to see so many of you are enjoying the story and that I've opened a number of you up to a new pairing. Marcus and Oliver have such a dynamic about them-you can totally tell they were meant to be in opposition, but I like to mess with things like that. ;)**

**Here is chapter five! With some fun Marcus/Oliver flirting! Among other things...! Haha, please enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

* * *

Oliver was glad to be a wizard.

Moving had proven very simple with the ability to shrink most of his belongings down and fit them into a single box. A swish of his wand had decorated his room, as well as filled their living room and kitchen with his things. Most, if not all, of Alicia's belongings were in her room; she and Katie had sold almost all of their furniture in order to cover their owed bills prior to moving. Though Alicia said nothing of it, Oliver could tell she was appreciative that he supplied their flat with the basic living essentials.

One afternoon after he returned home from errands, Oliver came across a letter from Flourish and Blott's. It was for a book he had preordered about a month ago, one about which he had completely forgotten amidst all of the moving. Having prepaid for it, he decided that evening after dinner to head to Diagon Alley to pick it up.

The cold autumn air of late November enveloped him as he apparated onto the familiar cobblestone pathway. Each and every week it seemed to be making progress, gradually regaining the jovial and whimsical feel it had prior to Voldemort's takeover.

Oliver ducked inside Flourish and Blott's with a shiver; he loosened his scarf around his neck and popped off his gloves, slipping them into the pockets of his robes. He'd made it just in time in seemed—there was barely anyone in the store, and from the looks of it, they were getting ready to close.

He wandered over to the checkout counter and said, "Hullo. Sorry, I know you're probably getting ready to call it a night, but I was hoping to pick up a book I've preordered."

The witch behind the counter nodded, though she lacked enthusiasm. "What's the name?"

"Wood."

"Ah, yeah. I just sent that owl. You're on top of it, aren't you?"

Oliver grinned, watching her retrieve the text from the aged wooden shelf behind her. When she set it atop the counter he picked it up, grazing his fingertips over the cover. Emblazoned in beautiful golden letters on a royal purple background was the title of the book: _The Complete History of Puddlemere United_. Even though Oliver likely knew most of what was inside, there had to be interesting tidbits, some top secret information. On some level, he hoped they would help him secure a more permanent position. After all, if he showed enough drive to learn even the smallest of facts, how could they deny him?

It was a little pathetic, yes, but he tried not to think about it…

After Oliver paid for his book he slipped his gloves back on and turned around, preparing to leave. To his surprise he came upon a familiar figure looking confused as he seemingly decided between two books, one in either hand.

Oliver called, "Oy!"

The dark haired man lifted up his head. Though at first he seemed pleasantly surprised, it quickly faded. He furrowed his brow.

"Ah, Wood. Good timing. Help me out here. You know women's things. My sister. Which book should I get?"

He approached the other, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. The two choices were photography and hosting parties. What was Marcus getting at with that comment? "I dunno, Flint. You buyin' a birthday gift, or what?"

"Mm-hmm. For my sister, Rhona. I dunno what she'd like more."

"Well, mate, hate to break it to you, but she's _your_ sister. I don't know a thing about her."

Marcus frowned. "You're no damn help." He almost glared at the books, as if they themselves were creating the trouble for him.

Oliver chuckled. "Pretty sure I can help when I know what I'm doing. Here, mate, I'm as lost as you are."

"I bet you can, Wood," Marcus replied automatically.

The two shared a knowing glance. Oliver realized that this was the first time they had either seen or spoken to one another since their drunken encounter way back when. Just thinking of it sent warm ripples through his body. Even if he could barely remember what happened, he knew it had been enjoyable.

"So, when's her birthday?"

"Why do you care? You just said you didn't know her, right?"

"Ouch, I'd best watch myself. The volcano is spurting off ash already."

Marcus snorted. "What the hell does that even mean, Wood?"

Oliver shrugged. "Just saying, you're getting nasty already, and we haven't even been talking for more than a few minutes."

"Yeah, well, I never said I was a bed of roses."

"Oh, no, I know. You like the whole tortured, bad bloke thing. I get it. Just toss yourself deeper into that bed of thorns."

Marcus regarded Oliver for a moment, seemingly sizing him up. He eventually just smirked. "I don't see you complaining."

"Eh, life would be boring without a little hostility." Oliver folded his arms over his chest. "By the way, I'd go with photography. Better option."

"I see. Well." Marcus eyed the books again. He finally made a decision by tossing _Hospitable Hosting_ back atop the pile. With the other title in hand he stepped close to Oliver. "So, what're you doing here, anyway?"

"Picking up a book I preordered," he replied.

"Yeah? Which?"

"Something about Puddlemere."

"You and that damn team." Marcus chuckled. "I swear. Of all the ones to pick, you go for piddly Puddlemere. Should've come to the Falcons with me."

Oliver's cheeks flushed at Marcus' comment. There was nothing wrong with Puddlemere and he hated it when people said otherwise. He did his best to bite his tongue. "Oh yeah? Why?"

As Marcus brushed past, he murmured something that sounded suspiciously like: "Would've loved to watch you in the locker room."

The brunette turned around, mouth partially agape. "Wait, what?"

Marcus looked surprisingly nonchalant. "What? You need me to repeat it?"

"Yes. What was that again?"

Oliver really just wanted to hear him say it again.

"I _said_, I'd have loved to watch you in the locker room, Wood."

Oliver felt his lips curling into a coy grin. Despite himself, he moved closer to Marcus, their bodies mere inches apart. Even after all of these years the slight difference in their height still left him at a disadvantage.

"I didn't forget about that note." Marcus eyed Oliver up and down, rubbing his own chin. "You owe me another round."

"_Owe_ you? I owe you nothing." Oliver smirked. "If anything, _you_ owe _me_ for helping you pick out your sister's book."

"It's gonna be like that, huh? Fine. I owe you one." Quietly, in a voice only the two of them could hear, Marcus said, "So you wanna call in on that favor?"

Oliver couldn't deny the desire stirring inside of him. His loins ached and his stomach began to tie itself in knots. Just _being_ this close to Marcus seemed to light his senses aflame. He worried his lower lip.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"Calling now."

Marcus' dark features lit up. His undeniably charming smirk made Oliver's heart skip a beat.

"Let me buy my book, then join me for a drink."

Oliver nodded along in agreement, following after Marcus and falling in step with him.

Tonight was going to be a great night.

. . . . .

Oliver awoke the following morning far more sober than he had the time previous. He knew that, given how it didn't even take one drink before the two of them were apparating to Marcus' flat. Their clothes had seemingly melted off of them along the way to the bedroom, where they currently found themselves.

In those few blissful moments when his eyes were closed and everything seemed perfect, Oliver rejoiced. He felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction that he quickly identified as simple gratification. His body had wanted something and his heart went right along for the ride.

And now here he was.

He opened his eyes, immediately surprised at where he was. The side of his face was nestled rather awkwardly against Marcus' ribcage. He moved, then winced; the pain was very sudden. He slowly pulled himself back, only to stop. He felt a warm, heavy _thing_ on his back. Upon further inspection he realized it was Marcus' arm draped over him.

This was oddly intimate. His brain tried to process it but couldn't seem to.

He ran over the events of last night, wondering if anything had led to this. Casual sex was one thing; intimacy was a whole other beast he wasn't ready to tangle with yet. Intimacy meant _feelings_, and Oliver couldn't process those properly at the current moment.

In perhaps a stupidly decided move, he all but curled away from the touch, even going so far as to wiggle his way out of it. This, of course, woke up Marcus, who stirred with a sudden and sharp intake of breath.

"Whassat," he muttered groggily, reaching up to rub his eyes.

Oliver watched the muscles in his upper chest and his arms flex and curl. _Those_ were why he was here. Yes, those very things exactly.

"Morning," Wood said.

"Morning," Flint replied automatically. He finally opened his eyes for more than a moment. He turned to look at Oliver. "Sleep good?"

"'Bout as well as a bloke can when he's been boinked up the arse," he replied with a smirk.

A devious grin overtook Marcus' features. "Yeah, well, didn't hear you complaining last night."

"Oh, m'not. Promise."

Oliver made no mention to Marcus about the arm, not wanting to raise any potential red flags. Logic had finally kicked in and reminded him that it was probably by accident. Marcus had been asleep, so how would he have known to do that? In addition, Marcus was by no means the affectionate type.

He closed his eyes.

_Thank you, logic. Somewhere, Granger is cheering._

"What time is it?" Marcus asked. He shuffled lazily around on the bed.

"Not sure…"

Oliver sat up and glanced over at the clock on the wall. The small hand was just past six.

His heart dropped.

"I'm gonna be late!"

As Oliver all but shot out of the bed, frantically gathering up what clothes he could, Marcus watched, bewildered. "Wood, what the hell are you blithering on about?"

"Practice! I'm going to be late!"

Wood dressed with such ferocity that he didn't realize he'd scratched himself until he felt a red-hot pain across his cheek. Damn, he thought. He needed to cut his nails.

"Practice? Weren't you just saying you had it yesterday?"

"Yes, but it's more of a meeting practice than a physical practice. We've got important games coming up."

Marcus opened his mouth, clearly about to say something. Whatever it was, he decided against it, letting out a cough.

"Well. Don't let me stop you."

"Really sorry," Oliver said sincerely. "Don't mean to be that bloke, but I gotta go. Where's my wand, where's my wand? Ah! There you are!"

Wand in hand, he offered a goodbye, disapparating on the spot.

. . . . .

"Alicia, I'm home!"

Oliver called his arrival prior to simply popping in, wanting to give his roommate time to make way in the rare case that he apparated atop her. When he appeared in the entryway he saw her hunched over, sitting at the desk. He walked up to her, glancing over her shoulder at her work. She had a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ sprawled out in front of her while she jotted down lines on a piece of parchment beside her.

"Busy?" he asked her. She didn't reply at first, so he said, "Oy. Nose-to-the-grindstoner."

"Huh? Oh." Alicia glanced up, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Sorry, Oliver, I'm just looking for some odd jobs, seeing if anyone has some extra things I might be able to do so I can earn some extra money."

"Know how that goes," Oliver said, with just a hint of woe. "Good luck." He clasped her shoulder briefly. "Good day, though, otherwise?"

"Mm-hmm." Alicia blinked. "Oh, you got something in the post, today. Here, before I forget."

She shuffled around some papers around on the desk before, eventually coming across a nondescript letter with Oliver's name scrawled across the surface. She handed it to him.

Strange, he thought. He didn't recognize the handwriting. It must have been from Flourish and Blott's. Maybe his subscription to _Quidditch Monthly_ was about to end?

He stuck his finger under the seal and popped the envelope open. When he retrieved the letter from inside, he looked curiously over it. Not much was written:

_Wood,_

_Since you rushed out on me this morning, I figure you owe me something in return. Thought we might meet up for dinner later this week. You know, if you've the time. _

_Let me know._

_-Flint_

He stared at the letter, perplexed. It must have been for some time, because soon, eyebrow raised, Alicia said, "What's it say?"

"Oh, nothing," he said dismissively. He folded up the letter. "Just something about work."

Alicia snorted. "Work, huh? Is that why your cheeks are so pink?"

Oliver tried not to let his eyes widen. How could she tell? Was he that transparent? "I don't know what the hell you're on about. My cheeks aren't pink."

"Oh, my. Got an admirer, do we? Is that what this is?" Alicia stood up, reaching out to try and snag the letter. Oliver jumped back. Alicia followed. "Come on, Oliver, let me see! Who is it?"

"It's no one!" Oliver said, grimacing at his childish reply. That was exactly what she was looking for, he just knew it.

She had a glint in her eyes. Alicia retrieved her wand, but Oliver held up his hand.

"All right, all right!" He needed a lie. He needed a lie… "It's an admirer. Some bird who I met at Flourish and Blott's the other day. We hit it off okay, she wanted to see if I was busy Friday."

"Now how hard was that? That's brilliant! You could use a girl who can take your mind off of Quidditch." Alicia grinned playfully. "To be honest, I'm surprised you're even thinking about it. We all used to think you were Quidditchsexual. You know, in love only with the game."

"Oy. That's not funny."

Alicia shook her head. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. I'm just taking the piss out." She put her wand back on the desk, then folded her arms over her chest. "So, you gonna go?"

"I reckon so," Oliver said. He figured Marcus would kill him if he didn't, and he had no intention of losing his life any time soon. Not after half the shite he went through earlier on in the year. "Guess I'll write her back and let her know a time and place."

"So exciting! Now, if only I could find a good bloke who's interested in books, too…"

Oliver laughed. "Well, good luck."

He returned to his bedroom then, shutting the door behind him. He immediately tossed Marcus' letter onto his bed, then himself, and closed his eyes. Why had he lied so boldfaced to one of his closest friends?

Oh, right. He remembered. He didn't know how they would respond to him being a homosexual.

Oliver hadn't been so sure about it, himself—not until about seven years ago when he'd taken a liking to Terence Higgs, the then Seeker for Slytherin House. With his dirty blond hair, his lithe muscles and his charming smile, something about him had drawn Oliver in and kept him there. It was his assumption that Terence had known back then. Some of the things he'd said, some of the things he had done…it made sense.

It wasn't until about two years ago that Oliver had finally begun acting on his attraction to men. And while most of his relationships began with fiery passion, they eventually fizzled out. To put it simply, Oliver got bored.

But this tryst with Flint…it was hard to describe. Whatever it was, it wasn't _boring_.

After a deep breath, he got up and went over to his desk so he could write a reply:

_Flint,_

_Dinner sounds great. Three Broomsticks at seven o'clock._

_See you then._

_Wood_

He folded up the letter and sealed it with his wand, taking it over to his owl, who was asleep in his cage.

"Snidget," Oliver said. "Wake up, mister. I've a letter for you to deliver."

The great horned owl fluttered within the cage and hooted irritably. However, once Oliver opened up the cage and the window as well, Snidget nipped at the letter, stretched his wings and took off into the night sky.


	6. The Three Broomsticks

**Author's Notes: So, here's the good news! I've finished the story, so all that's left is posting it. The bad news is that it's only a few chapters more from now. :( However, this is the first story in a very long time that I've really felt edged to write more after the ending, so I assume that can only mean it will leave you all with a desire for more, as well! This chapter is really just some light-hearted fluff with some insight into how I assume these two could interact, given how things have been going. **

**Mew: I'm glad you're loving it! Hope you enjoy this chapter just as much :D**

**Lazyslothwho: It's very hard to find good M/O fics because it's such a delicate pairing. Over the years, I've discovered that there is a lot of nuance to them. I have a few stories that I do like, mostly written by a fic friend of mine. You should check her out! Also, yes, Oliver named his owl Snidget. Could you see it being anything else? XD**

**NickelRamaMetalHydride: As requested, a new chapter! ;D**

**Please enjoy, everyone! Let me know what you think!**

* * *

"The red set? The black set?"

Oliver held up both sets of robes as he stared at himself in the mirror hanging on the bedroom wall. He was by no means the type to worry about his appearance; this was solely an attempt to discover the lesser of two evils. Both sets were unkempt, though the black was a little more threadbare than the red.

He chewed his bottom lip. His eyes lingered on the red.

"Red it is, Mister Wood. Good choice."

He tossed his black robes onto his bed, then slipped on his red set. Underneath was a comfortable pair of denim jeans and a black sweater. He hesitated, wondering if he would need his cloak. No, he reasoned, he would be apparating outside of the Three Broomsticks, just a short distance away.

Retrieving his wand from his pocket, Oliver stepped into the living room and then approached Alicia's bedroom door. He knocked on it.

"All right, I'm taking off!"

Alicia pulled her door open, an eager grin on her face. "Good luck, Ollie! Let me know how it goes, yeah?"

Oliver returned the grin. "Don't wait up for me."

"_Ooh_…"

"See you soon. Enjoy your evening!"

After a brief hug goodbye Oliver wandered over to their designated apparition point, feeling that sharp tug behind his bellybutton that twisted him through space. He appeared just south of the Three Broomsticks in the middle of a light snowfall. If it weren't for how cold it was, Oliver would have really loved the scenery. Hogsmeade had really made leaps and bounds in its recovery process since late May. It had regained its quaint, cozy feel. He couldn't really explain why, but it was reassuring.

Oliver slipped inside the Three Broomsticks just a few minutes past seven. He fully expected Flint to arrive late, as well, which he quickly realized was false. Standing there at the bar was the man in question, his flowing black robes matching his jet black hair. His pale cheeks were flushed, presumably from the cold.

"You can't have been early," Oliver said in greeting.

"Believe it or not, Wood, I am rather punctual. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, seeing as it's only five past." A smile ghosted across his face. "Glad to see you got here in one piece. After the spectacle at my flat, I thought your manager would have maimed you."

Wood's already pink cheeks reddened. "Yes, yes, I know. Sorry. I made it to the meeting in time, thank Merlin."

"Yes, thank Merlin. Now, I got us a table. Come on, then."

Oliver followed Marcus to a small, two-seat table nestled against the banister of the staircase leading to the rooms above. The ambient light of the tavern was amplified by the glow from the gas lamp settled atop their table. If this were a date, Oliver would have sworn it was mood lighting. Just a few moments later, two flagons levitated over toward their table.

"I took the liberty of ordering our drinks," Marcus explained.

Wood looked inside the flagon.

Mead.

"Am I really that predictable?" he asked.

"Yes."

He snorted.

Unexpected though this moment was, Oliver couldn't help but feel both amused and a little flattered. That was an unfamiliar sensation for him. Knowing him, he was probably blushing, but with any luck the flush from before had remained to mask it.

He and Marcus ordered their food and while they waited, exchanged pleasantries. Nearly every topic that came from one or the other's mouth was small talk. It wasn't until their food arrived that Oliver began grasping at straws, not entirely sure where to go. He was a social person, but this? This wasn't a normal social interaction. Hell, he didn't know _what_ it was.

As he pushed some mashed potatoes onto his spoon, Oliver looked at Marcus, mildly perplexed.

"All right. So. What…what _is_ this?"

"What's what?" Marcus asked.

"_This_. What we're doing here. I'm baffled. If I didn't know any better, I'd call this a—a date."

The dark haired man shrugged his shoulders. He sipped at his flagon. "Why do we have to call it anything?"

He made a good point; Oliver wasn't sure why he was so concerned as to what it needed to be called. Still, it nagged at him as he ate. He ignored it as best he could.

"So, you and Spinnet at each other's throats yet?"

"No, we get on just fine. Although she—" Oliver hesitated. "No, we're good."

"She what?"

"Well, it's kind of funny, really. When I got your post yesterday, she asked me if it was for a date. I…I kind of lied and told her that it was some woman I met at the bookstore who was asking me out."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. He said nothing.

"What?"

"Nothing. I would've done the same thing."

Now it was Oliver's turn to look surprised. "Really? I'd have thought you were…you know, _out_."

"Wood. Think about what you just said for a moment."

"I don't—_oh_."

"Mm-hmm."

That made sense. Coming from a pureblooded Slytherin family probably didn't nurture any against-the-grain _shenanigans_, as he had once heard his parents call it—that unacceptable practice in their Christian religion. Oliver loved his parents dearly, but there was a reason why they didn't know _everything_ about their youngest son. He supposed the same held true for Marcus.

It was funny. He'd never really thought they would share _that_, of all things, in common.

Oliver swallowed down some of his bangers and mash. "So. I know you've got a sister. Any other siblings?"

"An older brother," Marcus said. "But we don't talk much. My sister, though…three years older, and yet she acts so much more. I hear from her the most."

"Wait. _Three_ years older? So she went to school with us?"

"Didn't your brother?"

Wood blinked. "Yeah, but I never guessed you'd remember that."

"I'm not dumb as a brick like a lot of people think," Marcus said, voice somewhat strained. "He was a Hufflepuff. I remember, because my sister was, too."

That smarted a bit. Oliver nodded curtly. "Right. Well, how did the gift work out for her?"

"Oh, she loved it. Naturally."

"Mm."

Having never been particularly good at recovering from social faux pas, Oliver sat there, awkwardly pushing food around his plate. Part of him wanted to apologize, but he knew it would do nothing.

Despite feeling hesitant to do so, Oliver picked up the topic prior to their siblings once more. "So, how long have you known you , you know, fancied blokes?"

"A long while," Flint replied simply. "Fooled around a few times back at Hogwarts. Learned I preferred them to girls. Never said anything about it to anyone, though. Not outside of a few close friends."

"Can I ask you something?" Oliver blurted out suddenly.

"What?"

"Higgs. Was he—well. You know."

"As far as I know, no. He's been dating some bird for over a year now. Can't ever recall him jumping on a dick."

Wood laughed. "Merlin, make it sound more vulgar, why don't you?"

Marcus smiled. It caught the other's attention. "What? Well, I'm pretty sure I'd remember that. Why? Did you fancy him? Don't tell me you wanted him, Wood."

"No, no," Oliver lied. "I just…he used to give me these looks. I could've sworn he…oh, never mind."

"You liar. Your cheeks are bright red. You fancied Terence! What, got a thing for Slytherin snakes, Wood? What would your Gryffindor teammates say?"

"Oy, quit it! I did not!"

Marcus laughed. "Reckon I'll have to let him know."

"You will not, Flint! I'll hex your mouth shut."

"Hex it shut, huh? Could think of better things you can do to my mouth."

That caught Oliver off guard. He gawked momentarily at the man across the table from him. His lips curled into a smirk. "Fuckin' pervert, you are."

"Ah, and I love every minute of it."

As their conversation edged off and the two of them finished their meals, Oliver found himself stealing glances at Marcus more often than before. This was _fun_. Aside from the misstep earlier in the conversation, he'd enjoyed himself. Never in a million years would he have ever thought _Marcus Flint_ of all people would have been able to provide him with this.

"You know, it's funny," he began.

"Hm?"

"This. Us. Did you ever think that we could be civil with each other, let alone have fun?"

"Or fuck," Marcus added.

"Yes, that, too."

"To be honest, no. But I reckon things change. People change. We're not in school anymore, either. That likely helps a lot."

That much was true. Life at Hogwarts, great though it was, left much to be desired. Being cooped up three quarters of the year in a faraway place with only a couple hundred other people your age meant every bit of teenage angst was amplified. Their rivalry had been legendary at Hogwarts. But without the school, without their friends around to egg them on, there was no real reason for their mutual hatred to continue festering.

"We're more alike than anything," Marcus continued.

"Maybe that was one of the reasons why we didn't get along in school."

"Who knows. Who cares? That was years ago. There are bigger things to worry about now."

Oliver gave Marcus a flirtatious smile. "You mean like how you're going to get off tonight, right?"

Marcus chuckled. "In a perfect world, yeah. But no, I actually…can't, tonight. I've got a brunch tomorrow I have to attend with my family. Ministry bullshit."

"Oh. Oh! Sure."

Wow, he thought to himself. That sounded terribly disappointed. He needed to recover, and quickly.

"I didn't know you had family in the Ministry."

"Yeah, my father. He works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. My brother and sister do, too."

"Ah, wow. Yeah, definitely a family get-together, then."

Marcus groaned. "Yeah. So as much as I'd love to take you home and shove your face in a pillow, I've gotta get some good sleep. I've got a long day ahead of me."

"All the more reason for a good night," Oliver teased. Marcus opened up his mouth but he continued on, "I get it, though. No worries. Dinner was good."

"Real good."

After a pause, Marcus said, voice sincere, "Glad you could make it, Wood."

He smiled. "Me, too."

. . . . .

Oliver returned home that night feeling strangely satisfied with how the evening had rolled out. He still wasn't entirely sure what to call his dinner with Marcus, but he reminded himself that it didn't matter. They had enjoyed themselves. That was the important thing.

It intrigued him just how much he'd learned about the other in such a short period of time. Marcus had always been this enigmatic, private bloke with a brooding personality and a nasty attitude. Tonight, he had been almost the complete opposite. If anything, he had been _endearing_. Marcus probably wouldn't like being called that, but it was nonetheless true.

Wood leisurely undressed himself and began preparing for bed. He'd told Marcus he would owl him, though he hadn't given a time frame for it. What intrigued him was how _anxious_ he felt. This was a new emotion for him, at least when it came to simply spending time with someone. If he didn't know better, he would have thought it was infatuation that was bubbling up inside of him. He tried to remind himself that it really wasn't—he didn't need to deal with something like that right now.

_Don't be silly_, he said to himself. He'd just enjoyed his time with the other and was looking forward to the next time. Infatuation was a one jump too far.

Right?

"Right," he said aloud.

He wondered how Marcus' brunch would go. He also wondered how it was he'd remembered his brother was in Hufflepuff House. Five years Oliver's senior, Sean Wood was the quintessential Hufflepuff. To think that someone like that had also been in Marcus' family...

He supposed he needed to start thinking outside of the box. Prejudice didn't look good on anybody, especially House prejudice.

After washing his face and brushing his teeth, Oliver climbed into bed and used his wand to dim the lighting in his room. The bright light of the moon outside washed over his furniture, casting shadows all around. As he closed his eyes, the last thought to run through his mind was Marcus Flint.


	7. Misunderstanding

**Author's Notes: Hi everyone! I am uploading this chapter a little early because there is a very good chance that for the next week (or maybe two, depending on my internet capabilities) that I will not be able to post, as I'm moving fully and have to get everything set up in my new place. Chapter 8 which follows is going to be the last chapter, so keep that in mind. :)**

**I'm glad you're all enjoying the story as much as I've been while writing it. Like I said, I'm rediscovering my OTP, and damn, did I miss them.**

**LittleSuzieQ: Haha, believe it or not, I think that was the whole reason my love for MF/OW started-cause Oliver was such a cutie! But it developed into a lot more after that. Can't even say when or how, but I don't look back. Glad to have helped you discover a new pairing! :)**

**Lazyslothwho: I figured a story about the war shouldn't be ~LOLZ I THINK I LUV U~ right off the bat, especially with two people as polar opposite (in some ways) as Marcus and Oliver. I can agree with where you're coming from, too, about religion-I typically don't write it in, but this is something new for me and the chars. Usually Marcus has the dysfunctional family and Oliver has the tightly knit one, but I decided I wanted to turn it on a head and give Oliver's family a disapproving outlook on something that he holds secret about himself. As for the mention, of course! Your reviews help me grow as a writer, so why wouldn't I share that? :) As for my friend, her name is xposedagain (I can't remember the exact spelling) but she's on my favorite authors list.**

**NickelRamaMetalHydride: Thank you! And I agree-this is still a pretty uncommon pairing, which I find intriguing. I guess cause it isn't MWPP or Trio related!**

**Asphodel Winter: I have to say, when I first saw your username I was thinking of Pottermore accounts. LOL. I got mine and someone I know was talking about how they got like PhoenixAsphodel or something, it was cool. At any rate, good to see the story drew you in as much as it did! Thanks for the compliment, too-I strive to be realistic in all my writings, because sometimes, it's just more fun to explore how they would react in a real setting. :)**

**All right everyone, enjoy! There's a bit of dramas in this chapter, but it's an interesting turn. I think you'll like it. Lemme know what you think!**

* * *

Marcus Flint hated the Ministry.

More specifically, he hated the bureaucratic nonsense that came along with it. The idea of a Ministry-sponsored brunch for the families of the Department heads didn't sit right with him. Despite that, he had gone, knowing that it would reflect poorly on his father, brother and sister if he didn't. Not only that, but his mother would have never let him hear the end of it.

The event had been successful. In the end, that was all that mattered. His family's image remained untarnished for yet another round.

Though he would never admit it to anyone, the only thing that had gotten him through the brunch was thinking about his dinner with Wood over a week ago. He wasn't entirely sure at the time what had spawned his desire to take him out, but Marcus usually didn't sit around, contemplating his actions. Second guessing never did anyone any good, his father had taught him. You either went ahead one-hundred percent or you didn't do it at all. No guts, no glory.

Something was happening inside of him, he had come to realize. He was beginning to fancy Oliver Wood. It was as simple as that.

He came upon this discovery when he found himself becoming more and more anxious as he awaited the other's owl post, which arrived three nights ago. When he read it and replied without so much as a second thought, he knew it then.

Was this a bad thing? He didn't know yet. It was unusual, that much was for sure. He hadn't brought it up with anyone. He supposed in due time he would have to let it out, lest it blurt out of him at an inappropriate moment.

He laughed at the thought of how Terence and Adrian would take it. He likely wouldn't hear the end of it…

It was of little importance right now. What he needed to focus on now was Oliver's imminent arrival. In their posts to one another they had agreed upon the Gryffindor coming over to his flat for an in-home dinner. He'd settled on Indian food, knowing that it was commonplace enough that they could both enjoy it. It was take-out, of course, given Marcus' lack of culinary skills.

Somehow he didn't think Oliver would enjoy burned bagels and sausage.

At the stroke of eight, Marcus heard Oliver's arrival through the Floo Network. His fireplace momentarily lit up with brilliant emerald flames. In their wake was the Keeper, dressed in a set of fitted black robes.

Marcus smiled, though briefly. "Evening, Wood."

"Evening, mate. Boy, it's warm in here, isn't it?"

"Never been a fan of the cold."

"Me, neither. I like it. Nice and cozy." Oliver blinked. "Is that Indian food I smell?"

"Nose like a niffler, you've got." Marcus gestured toward the kitchen. "I ordered in."

"Hey, I'm thankful for anything. Really."

Marcus ushered Oliver through the entry of his flat into the dining room. It was just off set the kitchen, whose appliances looked as pristine as the day he'd moved in. Marcus wasn't much one for cooking; when he wanted a nice, freshly cooked meal, he typically returned home and had his mother do it for him. Considering she enjoyed doing it, he figured it was well worth the trip to make her feel happy.

Well, that, and he got a free meal.

"Please, sit," the dark haired man said, gesturing to the seat across from him as he himself sat down. He waved his wand and watched each of the individually wrapped plates float from the kitchen island to his dining room table. There was Tandoori Chicken, Chicken Tikka Masala, several side dishes and one or two desserts. Oliver seemed to have his eye on one of the dessert plates. What was it called? Oh, yes, Marcus remembered. Laddu.

Each man helped himself to a hearty plate of food. By the time Marcus had finished plating his dish, Oliver had already begun digging in to his.

"Merlin, Wood, you act like you haven't eaten in ages."

Oliver showed no restraint. In fact, he appeared amused. "Sorry, mate, but I haven't. S'been all day."

"You haven't eaten _all_ _day_?"

"It just got away from me. I was working at the Wheezes, and I—"

Oliver stopped himself. Suddenly his amusement turned into guarded discomfort.

Marcus was genuinely intrigued. Why in the world would Oliver need two jobs? "Wait. You play Quidditch _and_ you work at Weasley's shop?"

"Yes," Wood said, looking down and taking a bite of food. His cheeks were scarlet red. It was off-putting to Marcus, who was trying to understand.

"Why?"

"Because not all of us have rich families, mate."

Even though Oliver's words were damaging, he said them with no intentional malice. Marcus could tell. Still, something within him stirred, making his pale ears redden and the tip of his nose do the same. He cleared his throat. Normally restraint wasn't a word that existed in his dictionary, but tonight, it would need to be.

"Yes, well, even the rich have trouble sometimes," he said. He hated it when people brought up family money into conversation. Pucey did it all the time, much to his chagrin.

Oliver's nonplussed expression didn't make Marcus feel any better.

"It wasn't all dandelions and roses for me during the war, Wood. I know what you're thinking."

Marcus knew his words were dangerous. Breeching the subject of the war was by no means a topic he'd have chosen for the night, but the course of the conversation had veered out of his control. And right now, he was feeling backed into a corner, and he didn't like it.

"You mean to tell me that you weren't sitting pretty while Voldemort all but decimated a good chunk of the wizarding and Muggle populations with his terrible actions? Flint, look, you're all right, but you're a Slytherin. What's more, you're a _pureblooded_ Slytherin. Voldemort wouldn't have touched your family with a ten-foot pole."

"We weren't _sitting pretty, _Wood. Voldemort and his whole _fucking_ faction were trying to manipulate my family each and every day. My father, brother, sister—nearly all three of them had to stop going to work just so they weren't forcibly recruited into his ranks!"

Marcus' fork dropped to his plate with a resounding clatter. It didn't faze him; he continued to stare at Oliver, cheeks flushing. "And me—don't even get me _started_ on the _shit_ I had to deal with. I never wanted to be a part of that war, nor did I ever ask to be!"

"Then you should've joined _us_!" Oliver exclaimed. "From the sounds of it, you didn't want him in power, either! Why didn't you put yourself to good use?"

"Because it wasn't my fucking fight, Wood!"

"It was _everybody's_ fight!"

Marcus watched Oliver tear himself away from the table, standing up in a rush. The Gryffindor looked betrayed, hurt. It was strangely powerful, and the dark haired one felt momentarily overwhelmed.

"It was everybody's fight," Oliver repeated, quieter this time. He stared down Marcus, the green in his eyes nearly vibrating. He rolled up the sleeve of his robes, revealing his hex burn, which disfigured his forearm. Marcus had never really taken notice of it before, but now it was all he could look at. "We lost a lot of good people in that war, Marcus. We could have used all the help we could get. Now most of us live with scars we'll never forget."

He couldn't help himself. Being told he wasn't good enough had conditioned Marcus to reply in only one way: with confrontation.

He looked away. "Yes, well, I reckon some of us aren't nearly as noble as others."

Silence fell over them for a long while. Oliver turned his back to Marcus, and with a few flares of anger, the Chaser almost asked his guest to leave. However, once the initial upset of the moment had passed, both of them seemed to return to rationality. Oliver apologized, took his seat and closed his eyes. Marcus made no comment of the tears he could see welled up in the corners of the other's eyes. He was surprised at how much the sight of them affected him.

"We have to learn to move on," Flint said, surprisingly quiet. Louder, more clearly, he said, "Voldemort's dead. We need to deal with what we've been given."

"I'm doing my damnedest," Oliver replied with a bitter chuckle. "Reserve Keeper for four years. Working at a joke shop to pay my rent. Oh yes, I'm dealing."

Marcus found himself reaching out to touch Oliver. He stopped himself. He had never been good with moments like these: the rare instances where one bared oneself open for another. He wasn't sure how to properly interpret Oliver's behavior, or his words.

"To answer your original question, I work there because I need extra money. I can pay my rent just fine on my Quidditch salary, but that's only now that I've moved in with Spinnet. Before, it…well. I was exaggerating a little."

Oliver gave a shaky sigh. Even despite his ineptitude with emotions, Marcus could at least tell that the other was trying not to visibly express his distress.

"You ever thought of moving home?" Marcus ventured curiously.

"Love my family, mate, but never want to live there again unless I absolutely have to."

"Mm, can't I relate."

Silence once again crept in between them, though not entirely unwelcome this time. Marcus, with his appetite on hold, stared down at his food in an attempt to distract himself.

"M'sorry," Oliver eventually said once again. "The war's…a touchy subject for me. I try not to think about it when I can help it. Gives me nightmares."

Marcus simply nodded. After a moment, he said, "Seeing that many people dead, I can imagine, yeah."

"Most of them I can get over. It's just hard because…" He sighed, trying to discreetly wipe at his nose with the hem of his robe sleeve.

Marcus knew why.

"Because of Fred?"

"Yeah. Cos of Fred."

Oliver took a deep breath. Marcus watched him. He knew that Wood was close to the Weasley family, as he had always seen him hanging out with Percy and the twins. He realized, however, he never knew the extent of their friendship. Seeing someone so shaken up over the death of a friend was foreign to him. Marcus had lost no one close to him in the war, and by most standards, had gotten through it relatively unscathed. Aside from several threats from Death Eaters, nobody had harmed him or his family in any way, shape or form.

He frowned. Oliver was quiet again, a distant look in his eye.

"You gonna eat your food?" Marcus asked.

"M'not really that hungry anymore." Wood ran his hand over his cropped head of hair, moving to stand again. "Listen, I need to go. Nothing against you mate, I just can't,"—he shook his head—"I just _can't_ right now."

That was a confusing remark. The dark haired man stood as well, cocking his head to the side. "So you're just not going to eat? You said it yourself: you haven't eaten all day. It's gonna go bad, I can't eat it all, Wood."

"I'll eat later, I think. Thanks for having me over. I'll owl you, all right?"

Marcus stood and watched Oliver all but race off to his fireplace. Though he could not see them, he heard the _whoosh_ of the green flames that took the other man away from his flat.

What the hell had just _happened_?

. . . . .

After the fiasco at his flat the night before, Marcus owled his best friend Terence and asked him over for a drink. Never before had he ever felt the need to _talk_ about what had happened to him, nor with the fervor he felt now. Everything about his dinner with Oliver had confused the hell out of him. He had no idea where they stood, and it frustrated him—even more so now that he knew he fancied the damn git.

Terence showed up after his shift ended at the _Daily Prophet_. Being the junior editor meant he had an awful lot of responsibilities, but as a true friend would, he put as much aside as he could in order to be there for him. That meant something to Marcus, though more on a _that's-how-it-should-be_ level than anything else.

He poured Higgs a glass of scotch as he paced back and forth in the living room. Not having had practice that day had left him with a large amount of energy. Dwelling on something was new to Marcus, let alone dwelling on something so intense. He was beginning to feel anxious.

"So, what's got you all tied in knots?" Terence asked as he enjoyed his drink.

"Listen. I'm about to tell you something that you won't exactly believe, but I don't want any of your snide or sarcastic remarks. All right?"

Terence smirked. "Me-ow. The claws are out tonight, huh?"

"Promise me."

"All right, all right. I promise. C'mon now, tell me. You've got me all intrigued and titillated."

Marcus proceeded to tell Terence everything from the beginning: about how he and Oliver hooked up; how the two of them ran into each other at the book store and did it again; how they'd gone out to drinks, and how he knew something was developing inside of him that wasn't completely primal in nature. He also went into surprising detail about the night before, making sure to accentuate the odd behavior Oliver had displayed. It had really done a number on him.

Terence could quite obviously tell. "Boy, you're really chuffed about this, aren't you?"

"Yes. No. Fuck, I don't know! It's not _normal_. One minute, everything was fine, then the next, he's off being weepy and emotional! I don't know what happened!"

"The war happened, Marcus. That's what."

"There _you_ go, bringing in that serious voice. The war_. The war! _Oh, the _war_! Honestly, you all act as if it was the end of the world!"

"For some, it _was_."

Marcus immediately regretted what he said. In that heated moment, he had forgotten that Terence's father had been a victim in the war—a casualty due to his Muggle sympathies.

He turned around. "I'm sorry, mate."

"Yes, I know." Terence spoke swiftly. "You're about as sensitive as a box of bludgers, though, you know? Maybe that's why Wood was acting the way he was. He lost a real good friend when Weasley died."

"I never knew they were _that_ close, though. I mean, really, who was ever _that_ close to those two twins?"

"Apparently he was. And what he needs right now, it sounds like, is for someone to be there for him."

"Isn't that what his family and friends are for?"

"Look. He obviously feels something for you, you dolt. If he didn't, he wouldn't have been there. Hell, he likely would have left after the fight. The fact that he stayed means something. So you should learn to roll with it and go find him."

Terence finished off his scotch, clearing his throat. He looked out the large living room window, staring into the sky above. When his eyes met with Marcus' again, he raised his eyebrows.

"So I should go find Wood and do what?"

Higgs laughed. "Merlin, mate, you're as block-headed as you are pale. Just _be_ there for him, for whatever he needs. Even if he says he doesn't."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to be catching on to some hidden meaning in what you said?"

"No. That's why I have Penelope. She got me through it."

"Oh. Right."

"Do you know where he lives?" Terence asked.

"No. Reckon I could find out easy, though. He lives with Spinnet. Apparently he also works with the other Weasley, what's his name. George."

"I'd start there."

"Hm."

Marcus eyed his best friend for a moment. What game was he getting at, telling him to go speak to George Weasley? He knew full well they didn't get along. Why in the bloody hell would he give away Wood's address?

"I'm sure if you asked George civilly he'd let you know, by the way."

"Damn it, Terence, get out of my head."

Terence smirked once more. "You're like a book, you know. A very easy book."

"And you're a wanker. How d'you like _that_?"

"At least I'm a clever wanker. I'll take that."

As his friend lifted himself from the couch and headed into the kitchen once more, Marcus scratched the tip of his chin thoughtfully.

He supposed it was time to go out on a limb and contact George Weasley.


	8. Healing

**Author's Notes: Well everyone, this is it! I finally have internet (sorry it took so long!) and can finally post the last chapter. Hopefully the wait was worth it. I wanted to thank everyone who has followed this story and has given me feedback and their opinions on it. Rediscovering these two has been a real joy for me and I know that it shows in the writing. Exploring them in a whole different environment has really given me a new outlook on how Marcus and Oliver interact, especially in a different setting outside of Hogwarts. Please don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think, it means the world to me :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Oliver,_

_I've thought a million ways of how I wanted to begin this letter to you. I know that we haven't really spoken since Fred's funeral (and before that, even), and for that, I'm sorry. I understand now more than ever how important it is to never give up on your friends and family, no matter how lost you get in your career. What I did is unforgivable, but I am hoping you can find it within you to let everything go._

_It was good to see you at the wake, even if we only spoke briefly. _

_Let me make it up to you and take you out for a drink? _

_If this works for you, please let me know. _

_Sincerely,_

_Percy I. Weasley_

At first glance, Oliver couldn't believe that Percy had written to him. It was true what he had said: they really hadn't spoken in quite some time. The last occasion he could recall being with Percy was Fred's funeral, as the letter had said. Even though Percy's birthday had just passed in August, Wood hadn't sent his friend anything. Unfortunately, he didn't feel all that guilty about it.

But Percy was extending an olive branch of sorts with his letter. After the confusion and frustration that had burst out of him at Marcus' the other day, Oliver had retreated back into his solemn quiet, only surfacing when absolutely necessary. Alicia, though she gave him the space he needed, seemed concerned. Meeting up with Percy would likely soothe her worries. Maybe it would do him some good, too.

Oliver's reply to his once-close friend was simple: _Meet me at Fred's grave this afternoon at three_.

Fred's funeral had taken place at the Burrow, near where he was buried. Oliver hadn't been to Ottery St. Catchpole since that day, and he figured it was about time he went. He hated to admit it, but Flint had been right: he needed to move on. He needed to let go. Maybe on some level having Percy there to grieve with him would make it easier. He could hope, anyway.

With his cloak draped over his shoulders, Oliver apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole, arriving a couple dozen feet away from Fred's grave. In the distance he spotted Percy, his bright red hair lighting up the pale countryside sky behind him.

"Oliver!" Percy called.

"Hullo, Perce."

The two stared at each other for a moment. Percy fidgeted from side to side, seemingly trying to predict the best way to greet him. He settled on a hug, which Oliver returned.

As they walked over the rising hill and toward Fred's tombstone, Percy asked, "Why Fred's grave, of all places?"

"I need to say goodbye."

Percy may not have remembered, but Oliver had never said his goodbyes to Fred during his funeral. It was still so soon after the battle that he had refused to. He was stubborn, almost to a fault sometimes. Saying goodbye then meant letting go, and Oliver hadn't been ready. On some level he felt like he still wasn't, but he would never be able to move on with his life if he didn't.

Oliver stared at the tombstone for a long while. Percy stood beside him, silent, but supportive.

"It's not fair," Percy eventually said. He placed his hands into the pockets of his robes, shivering from the cold breeze whisking through the air.

"No, it's not."

"Oliver, can I…tell you something?"

Oliver looked at Percy. "Anything, mate."

Percy glanced at his brother's tombstone. "I…I feel responsible. In a way."

"Why so?"

The redhead furrowed his brow. "I shouldn't have just come back the way I did. Blasting in there like I owned the place. I threw everyone off. Fred likely never would have been where he was if he weren't."

"Perce, you can't blame yourself. You couldn't control your brother. Hell, you couldn't control the explosion that killed him. None of us could." Oliver returned his focus to the tombstone as well, bringing his arms closer to his body.

Merlin, was it cold. He was surprised it hadn't snowed today. Early December was usually rife with it.

"Fred fought valiantly, justly. His death was unexpected, but…nothing we can do about it now."

Percy nodded. After a period of long silence, he said, "Oliver, I'm sorry. I know I did a number on our friendship. I didn't mean to be so…"

"Prat-like?"

"Yeah, prat-like." He smiled faintly. "I made the decisions I did, and now I have to deal with them. Which means fixing the bridges I burned. Are you and I…are we okay?"

Oliver stared at Percy. There was sincerity in his eyes which glowed from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Taking in a deep breath, he nodded.

"We're okay, Perce."

Percy's smile widened, but what caught Oliver's attention was the wetness building up around the other's eyes as he said, "Thanks."

The only sound that followed thereafter was the wind blowing through the treetops that surrounded them. In the distance, Oliver heard the cries of several domesticated animals. He forgot how close they were to the Burrow.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready to say goodbye," Percy said with a sigh. "I had just gotten him back. Fred and I were never close, not like him and Bill, or him and Charlie, but I loved him. He was my brother."

"He was like a brother to me, too, mate." Oliver swallowed roughly. His throat burned from the threat of oncoming tears. Saying goodbye was never easy.

He addressed the tombstone: "Fred. If you can hear us, we miss you, mate. Life isn't the same without you. But wherever you are, know that we are remembering you each and every day. We'll watch over George, over your mum. We'll make sure you're never forgotten."

Percy added, "We love you, Fred. More and more each and every day. Good bye."

"Good bye," Oliver added, staring up into the cold, grey sky.

He felt hot tears dribbling down his cheeks.

_Good-bye_.

. . . . .

Marcus stared at the outside of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Its magical outward display lit up the dark corner upon which it sat, drawing attention from every which direction.

He took in a deep breath. He was doing this for a reason. He knew he was. That didn't make it any easier.

With the cold wind picking up around him, he hurried inside Weasley's sensory overload of a store, wondering exactly where he'd find him. He hadn't seen the ginger since way back when, and when he thought about it, he wondered if he would even remember what he looked like.

He glanced around the store, trying to find someone with flaming red hair. He stepped deeper inside, past several colorful display boxes around which children congregated in gaggles.

To his surprise—and perhaps fortune—George was the one who recognized _him_, just shortly after he passed the Skiving Snackbox setup.

"Flint! What the bloody hell are you doing in my store? I didn't know you had a sense of humor."

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, only to have a firecracker whiz past him and explode in the air. He shook his head. What was wrong with this git?

"Weasley. I've _always_ had a sense of humor. Mine's just more adult than yours."

"Mm-hmm, yep," said George, clearly unconvinced. "All right, then, Flint. Doesn't explain what you're doing here."

"I came to ask you something," Marcus offered simply. He eyed the other. Dressed up as he was in a snakeskin suit with a bowler hat tilted sideways, he was hardly impressive. He looked rather daft, in the Slytherin's opinion.

George clutched his chest in surprise. "You came to ask me something? I think the world's gonna end. Unless you came to get my expertise on all things funny—in which case I'll be happy to offer some assistance. You know, so long as you buy something."

"I'm not going to buy any of your ruddy nonsense," Marcus grumbled. He swatted away an enchanted flying toy that some child was aiming toward his head. "I just needed to know where Wood lives."

"Why do you need to know _that_?" George asked warily.

"It's none of your business," Marcus replied. "He and I have something to talk about, and I need to find him."

"Nonsense. You're gonna go beat him up just like you used to try doing back in Hogwarts, you bully. Might as well hex you myself, save him the energy!"

Flint growled. "Listen, Weasley, it's personal, and it's nothing like that. Just tell me where he lives."

"Only if you tell me why," George said.

Marcus stepped closer, using his scowl and size in hopes of intimidating George. To his misfortune, he stood still with no visible fear in his eyes. Marcus hated that he was built similarly to him.

"I'm waiting."

"I need to apologize for something I did," Marcus said. It wasn't completely true, but he hoped it was sincere enough to draw sympathy.

"Don't you always?"

He gritted his teeth. This wasn't working.

"Look, Weasley. It's a private matter. I'd owl him, but I need to tell him to his face. He deserves the courtesy. Now, are you going to help, or not? I'll buy this stupid box of sweets,"—he picked up a Skiving Snackbox—"if you tell me where he is."

George stroked his chin, as if pondering the matter. Marcus didn't need to know what he was thinking; he'd already made a decision and was just prolonging the outcome.

"All right, I guess if you'll buy it, I can tell you where he is."

"How much?"

"Three galleons."

Marcus fidgeted around inside of his robes until he found a few coins. He extended his hand, money out, and George snatched it up quickly.

"All right. He lives in a small wizarding community in Sevenoaks, just outside of London. You know it?"

"Heard of it, never been. Thanks. You know the address?"

"Let me just write it down for you."

George conjured up a quill and a piece of parchment paper, writing down Oliver's address. Before he handed it over, he said, "If I get any word that you did something to him, it won't be pretty. You got it, Flint?"

"Yeah, yeah, just gimme the paper, Weasley."

Marcus snatched the folded up paper from the other, nearly dropping his snackbox in the process. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do with it. Pawn it off on his niece, probably. She'd like it.

"Thanks," he said flatly, already heading for the door.

"I'm serious!" George called after him, though Marcus was already gone.

. . . . .

Oliver returned home after having a drink and sharing a plate of food with Percy. It felt nice to catch up with his old friend, even if talking about his situation wasn't exactly the most enticing conversation. He found out that Percy had moved home and had yet to go out and find a new job. Oliver found this incredibly strange, as Percy hardly seemed the type to handle life without one. But it had apparently done him a world of good; he seemed happier than he ever had before.

When they parted ways, they wholeheartedly agreed to meet up again. Percy had a grounding effect on Oliver that helped keep him from drifting too far off into his own world. Given how often it was happening nowadays, that presence would definitely be welcomed.

He drew himself a bath and relaxed his aching muscles. He'd had practice the day before in preparation for the upcoming game against the Falcons on the seventeenth.

He still needed to owl Marcus. It had only been a few days, but Oliver knew the reason he was hesitating: something was happening between them and he didn't know how to deal with it.

It had started simple enough with their fooling around. But then things got gradually more complicated, and now they knew more about each other—about their lives, their feelings, their hopes and dreams. Oliver realized something was different when he had returned home after his emotional outburst. All he could think about was how guilty he felt for leaving Marcus high and dry. Not only that, but he longed to see him. The only time he'd ever had that sensation was when he fancied someone.

Oliver pondered the idea of cooling things down between them. They had met up regularly for the last few weeks, most of which hadn't led to sex as he'd originally intended. Though he and Marcus had never explicitly stated what they were, despite his desire to do so, he realized it was going outside of the boundaries of his expectations.

This was precisely why he wanted to avoid this all. _Feelings_ just confused him—confused things in general. He groaned.

He continued to soak for a good half hour before finally getting out and drying himself off. He dressed and was on his way back to his bedroom when he stopped, seeing Alicia speaking with someone at the door.

"I don't know what you're getting at but I really don't see why you need to—"

"It's none of your business, now just—oy! Wood!"

The younger man stopped in his tracks. Flint was standing outside on his porch.

"W-What? What are you doin' here?" Oliver asked.

From the doorway, Marcus said, "I came to talk to you."

"Oliver, what's going on?" Alicia looked confused and irritated. "He just showed up a minute ago and keeps nagging me to speak with you. I told him you were busy."

Oliver didn't know what to say. This was not only unexpected but also very disconcerting. He didn't want or need anyone to know about his _thing_ with Marcus, and now it was hitting him right at home. Just _after_ he'd spent forever thinking about it.

Marcus didn't seem the type to just show up on one's doorstep, however. Uncertainty as to how he'd found his flat aside, it was…oddly intriguing.

He approached the front door, standing beside Alicia. He shifted nervously. "What're you here to talk about?"

"I just came to—well. It's—ugh." He eyed Alicia, then Oliver. "Look. I know you're going through some stuff. I just wanted to…I…"

Oliver waited for Marcus to finish his sentence, but he never did. Instead, after a moment of exasperation at his inability to verbalize his thoughts, the Slytherin reached out and brought Oliver into a hug. At first it was awkward, and he almost pulled away.

That was until Marcus whispered into his ear, "I'm sorry about Fred," and tightened his embrace.

At that moment, all that Oliver could focus on was him. His gesture was so pure, so unadultered—it hit him like a bag of bricks, and in turn, crashed down the wall he'd been trying to build for so many months. He returned the hug fiercely, pouring himself and all of his feelings into it. Marcus didn't let go, and it was bliss. Oliver buried his face into the crook of his neck, near the clasp of his cloak. Marcus' warmth and soft scent was comforting.

"Come home with me tonight," Marcus suggested softly. He cupped the back of Oliver's head.

Wood simply nodded in the touch.

When he finally pulled back, he nearly doubled over from the expression on Alicia's face. He couldn't blame her; this would have been the equivalent of seeing Voldemort hug Harry Potter in her eyes.

"It's a really long story," he said to her. Her expression remained shocked. "Listen. We'll talk about it tomorrow, yeah?"

"Y-Yeah, okay. Whatever, Oliver. Sure. Just..okay," Alicia sputtered out.

He turned back to Marcus. "Be right back."

Oliver disappeared just long enough to retrieve his wand from his bedroom. When he came back, Marcus wrapped an arm around him, instructed him to hold on tight, and before he knew it they were twisting and turning though space. They appeared in the somewhat familiar kitchen Oliver had nearly stormed out of earlier in the week, but he felt no shame. He felt…oddly at peace.

He pulled away from Marcus, but only insomuch as to pocket his wand.

He stared at the other, unsure of what to say. Oliver had never been good with words. He wanted to thank him, wanted to explain what he'd done earlier that afternoon, but nothing was coming out.

Eventually the word that escaped him came almost on its own accord: "Why?"

Marcus clearly understood. "I fancy you, Wood. I know it's pretty obvious at this point, but I do. I've never been the suave, socially adept type, and I've made some mistakes. I'm trying to make up for them."

Oliver chuckled softly. "You did a pretty good job, you dolt. But I have no room to talk. I haven't been all that sensible lately, either."

They both smiled at each other. A mutual understanding had begun to grow, something which Oliver had never anticipated happening with Marcus Flint, of all people. Then again, nothing about this entire situation was ordinary.

The dark haired man smirked. "By the way. If you tell anybody I'm actually not a complete prat, I'm going to have to hex you."

He started to leave the room. Oliver followed after him, all the way until their arrival in his bedroom. Good memories lingered here, helping to keep his mood uplifted.

As Marcus began to undress, the younger one took a seat on the plush bed.

"I went to Fred's grave today."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I finally said my goodbyes."

Marcus said nothing; he didn't need to. Oliver just wanted him to know that he was on the track to recovery. Losing someone close was never easy, but it helped to have someone there who understood you in a way nobody else would.

He wondered how that person had ended up being his once rival, though he didn't dwell on it. It was a pleasant sort of irony.

"Never thought I'd end up in this sort of situation," Marcus explained as he came to lie down beside Oliver.

"Me, either," Wood said. He looked around him. So many thoughts and feelings bustled around in his head. He found it hard to focus. Strangely enough, they all dissipated the moment Marcus brought him in closer, wrapping his arm around the younger one's waist.

"Get a good night's sleep, Wood. You need it."

Oliver nodded his head. Everything happened for a reason, he knew that now better than ever. Still, it had taken a long time to get here. However, he supposed what mattered most was what you learned on the journey, not the destination.

Healing was a process—a process that required the care, attention and help of others. Now that Oliver had finally accepted that, he could begin fully moving forward.

With Marcus' arm draped around him, the Gyffindor closed his eyes, nuzzled his head into the pillow and felt himself drift off to sleep.


End file.
